


Cinderwings

by bendingsignpost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angels, Ballroom Dancing, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Deception, Interspecies Romance, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Knights - Freeform, Mages, Multi, Prince Dean, Prince Sam Winchester, Slow Burn, Weddings, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 181,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Under the cover of a masquerade ball, Castiel has five nights to recover the key to his people's freedom. The world has changed greatly in the six centuries since their banishment into the void, but the task isn't impossible. Unfortunately for Castiel, this is going to involve talking to people - especially the Knight Prince who has taken an interest in Castiel and his "costume" wings.(Destiel Cinderella AU)





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my betas, Seiji and rachelindeed. I tried to take a break from writing something else, wrote this monster in three months, and now here we are. Their help in getting it into fighting form has been invaluable. Seriously guys, thank you.
> 
> I'm planning update on Mondays or Tuesdays going forward, so stay tuned each week! And now, Cinderwings:

Wings bound against his back, Castiel exits the portal into a garden. The high walls of a hedge maze conceal him and the misting light of the gateway. As the mist dissipates, vanishing entirely into shadow, a distant clock tower begins to toll the hour. The bell rings a reassuring seven times, the same number of times it would toll in his own realm. He has five hours until the portal opens to let him back through, and he wastes a third of the first hour merely getting out of the maze on foot.

 

Breathing air thick with perfumes and human scents, he loses the rest of that hour standing in a line. He straightens his mask, ignoring the occasional uninvited touch on his wings. Around him, the costumes are colorful and only lightly embellished with spellwork, and his carefully motionless wings draw attention, even in such decorated company. He passes the wait gazing skyward, feigning admiration for the castle and not the darkening sky above it. As he waits, the magic inherent in his being adjusts his understanding of the language around him. Nonsense turns to clarity, but that is not what Castiel listens for. The toll of the clock tower is harder to hear in the press of the crowd, all eager to enter the castle from which music spills forth. His first hour gone before he even presents the once-crisp, now-battered embossed parchment.

 

“Guest in place of Seer Shurley,” he explains, holding it out to the nearest guard. She looks at it, looks at him, and returns it with a nod. She motions him forward and he crosses unimpeded over the warding set into the design of the stone floor. It’s a beautiful mosaic covering even deeper magic, but he keeps his eyes away from that distraction, as if he cannot sense the lines of power.

 

Leaving a margin for error, he has three hours left to investigate tonight, and one with which to leave. Five nights, with five hours each total. Effectively three hours each night, a full fifteen to accomplish his goal. If he can manage an efficient enough entry and exit, perhaps as many as twenty hours.

 

He knows the size of this castle. He sees the size of the crowds. He reassesses.

 

If the tablet is here, as the seer claims, he cannot count on retrieving it. The humans may not know what they possess; that is at once his best chance and greatest fear. He can more effectively aid in the measures that will prevent the demons from reaching it.

 

For both of these courses of action, he needs to observe the castle’s security.

 

Decision made, he patrols.

 

Though the outer sprawl of the compound is best described as a palace, this inner territory is truly a castle. This is a tower-topped stronghold, no matter how much dancing the great hall contains. There is dancing in the great hall, in the inner courtyard, in the throne room. There are at least three separate groups of musicians and more tables laden with foodstuffs than Castiel can be bothered to count. There are servants and guards, only some uniformed, and Castiel does count these.

 

While the martial prowess of the kingdom is celebrated through displays of armor and wall-mounted shields, metal and wooden alike, there is a conspicuous lack of actual weaponry mounted on the walls. The only arms within the castle are those the guards carry on their persons and those every mage carries within their hands.

 

He wanders past the areas designated for guests, and where he is stopped and redirected, he inquires after the architecture. The crowded hallways feel worse than they are with his wings tight against his back, but he endures the handicap on his balance. Worse still, with the wrists of each wing riding high and defensive over his shoulders, his vision is also limited. Worst of all, people keep touching him there, each curious human certain he can’t feel it. One woman tries to pluck a feather but stops when he glares, too flummoxed by her gall to respond verbally.

 

It occurs to him, shortly after a grand clock in the hallway chimes ten times, that he is surrounded entirely by another species. He is the only angel in this world.

 

He must be, because someone else would have corrected this tapestry by now.

 

He stares up at it, taken aback by the gruesome event woven into heavy cloth. Or perhaps embroidered. These things are not Castiel’s specialty.

 

Not for the first time this night, a human stops beside Castiel. The man angles his body toward him, a preliminary opening to conversation. Beyond offering his invitation and excuses for wandering, Castiel has not spoken tonight, but he speaks now.

 

“This is wrong,” he says.

 

The man beside him turns his head. The soft brown fabric of his mask peaks into two high metallic horns, each tipped in silver. This symbol of the royal stag is more blatant than the circlet the mask hangs from, but both gleam under candlelight and magelight equally. The mask covers his features from forehead to nose, leaving his full lips and jaw exposed. Embroidered into his black jacket are countless silver symbols, an endless series of interwoven devil’s traps.

 

“Your Highness,” Castiel amends. He bows his head, as if having misspoken before. The gamble is reasonable. He keeps the apology to that gesture alone, forcing the rest of his body still.

 

“What’s wrong with it?” the prince asks. His voice is rough but even, a coarse scrape born of use, not mood. He sips from the glass in his hand. The lip of the glass is lined with silver, and the properties of the metal give Castiel cause to wonder. Traditionally, the crown prince would be marked by gold, not silver, but in a world plagued by monsters, the values of those metals may have swapped, and their meanings as well. For all their best efforts, much of Castiel’s information is centuries out of date. It is not the humans that Uriel has been watching.

 

Putting these concerns aside for the moment, Castiel indicates the tapestry and asks, “This depicts the Severing of Lucifer, correct?”

 

This is rhetorical.

 

“If you mean him having his wings hacked off,” the prince allows. Whether the informality is meant to welcome or rebuff, Castiel cannot say. Devoid of wings himself, the human has very little recognizable body language.

 

“I do, Your Highness,” Castiel replies, a conversational retreat as more humans draw near. They form a polite circle, clearly more interested in following their prince than listening to Castiel. Despite the audience, he continues, “In the last battle of the angels upon this earth, Lucifer’s wings were severed by his three brothers, but he wasn’t kneeling when they cut him. He was face-down on the battlefield with his wings held down, not drawn back.”

 

The prince takes another slow sip, the motion careful. He can’t seem to tip his head back with that mask. “It’s more artistic like this,” he says. “You can see all of their faces this way. Not that screaming is much better than face down in the dirt, but it is more dramatic.”

 

“The artistry would be improved with the correct coloration,” Castiel says. “And the drama would be improved by depicting the mortal wounds Gabriel and Michael incurred. They’re on the wrong sides, as well.”

 

The prince tilts his head slightly, a nod to the side. Weighing, perhaps? It might be a gesture of curiosity. It would be on an angel. “Mortal wounds, you say.”

 

“Gabriel held the left wing, Michael the right. Despite his mastery of illusions, Gabriel was desperately wounded while pinning Lucifer. When Raphael sundered Lucifer’s right wing from his body, Lucifer was no longer pinned. He drove his sword through Michael’s stomach, and Raphael severed his left wing instead of healing Michael or Gabriel.”

 

Conscious of the change in realm, Castiel lowers his voice. Sound carries so easily here, with air to carry it.“It is unknown whether Raphael’s sacrifice of his brothers was unwitting, born of necessity, or a ploy to obtain undivided control of his brothers’ armies. Whether cold with grief or logic, he rules over the realm of angels to this day.”

 

The prince’s mouth makes a shape. “Nice story.”

 

Castiel holds his wings still, refusing to frown. “With respect, Your Highness, this is history.”

 

The prince looks at him, and Castiel is almost certain the prince is looking at him oddly. His mouth moves in a slightly different way before he asks, “You believe in angels?”

 

This is not a question Castiel was expecting.

 

“Believe,” he echoes. Behind him, someone titters. There are murmurs followed by another quiet laugh.

 

“They existed – maybe – about six hundred years ago,” the prince tells him. He gestures to the tapestry with his glass. “Right after this, no more sightings. Not a one.”

 

Castiel meets his gaze calmly, levelly, and thinks strongly of irony. He takes another gamble.

 

“There’s evidence they relocated to another realm of existence, similar to the manner of the fae.”

 

“Evidence, huh.” It might be a mocking comment. It might be a challenge. The prince doesn’t look at his small crowd of hangers-on, neither encouraging or dismissing them, and that isn’t much of a hint either.

 

“There are historical records of a series of tablets, infused with power and carved with incantations of banishment,” Castiel says truthfully. “Angels vanished from this world six hundred forty-eight years ago after the battle depicted here, and I believe this is because of the nature of those incantations. The number of demons inhabiting this world was immense, but that number was abruptly and vastly reduced at the same time. By banishing themselves, the angels banished an equal force of demons.”

 

The cloth of the prince’s mask shifts slightly with his facial expression, presumably something involving his eyebrows. “I will say, that’s not a theory I’ve heard before.”

 

They stand facing each other now, the small crowd clustered around them both, a semi-circle in front of the tapestry. The gemstones on his mask glittering, a man from the group steps forward to insinuate himself between them, but before he can interrupt, the prince smoothly hands him his empty glass.

 

“What if I say the reduction in demon numbers was clearly due to the Colt Reforms?” the prince asks, eyes on Castiel and Castiel alone.

 

“I would say the Colt Reforms focused primarily on identifying, containing and repelling demons, not killing them, Your Highness,” Castiel replies. He remembers being impressed at the time of the implementations. That the humans would find ways of defending themselves had been remarkable. “That much is evident in the walls around us: the salt channels in the windowsills, the devil’s traps in the stonework, the holes in the smaller stone doorways. It’s all containment. Except for the doorways, there isn’t a single measure that could be considered harmful, let alone aggressive.”

 

“What about the holes in the doorways?” the prince asks, his mouth moving in yet another new way. There are too many kinds of human expressions, Castiel decides.

 

“The holes in the tops of the doorways,” Castiel says. “For pouring down purified water, creating a curtain agonizing to pass through.”

 

The prince shows his teeth, so many of them. A threat? Is Castiel showing insufficient deference? “We haven’t used those in a couple hundred years,” the prince says, and his tone is a signal to relax, marginally. “Too messy, too redundant.” He shifts slightly closer, and his shoulder puts more of his hangers-on at his back, further separating himself and Castiel from the group. “You missed one, by the way.”

 

Concede or challenge? Based on the warmth in his voice, Castiel challenges.

 

“If you mean the chandeliers, they’re clearly a more modern addition.”

 

Around them, multiple people look up, evidently only now noticing the circles and runes held aloft above them.

 

“‘Clearly’?” the prince repeats. If anything, he shows yet more teeth. “Same style of metal work.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “Then they were made to match well. I’m certain Your Highness is aware those runes are much too recent.” If Castiel doesn’t recognize them, they must be. “Also, the Colt Reforms were meant to be implemented universally, down to the last cottage, and chandeliers are hardly universal light sources. Any household could carve a trap in wood or weave it into a rug. Having a line to fill with salt is even simpler, and a bucket of water over a door is literal child’s play. A chandelier of enough size to trap a demon requires high ceilings and would go against both the spirit and practicality of those reforms.”

 

The prince shows his teeth and he keeps showing them. He reaches out to touch Castiel’s shoulder, his fingers brushing far too intimately against the underside of Castiel’s wing. Gently, he pulls, putting the rest of the hallway at their backs.

 

“You said they had the colors wrong,” the prince prompts, gesturing to the tapestry. He doesn’t remove his hand, and the small gathering behind them, cast into an excluded sphere, doesn’t seem to know what to do. “It’s an old tapestry. Could be faded.”

 

“They’re all doves here,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “I can understand the mistake for Lucifer: he was pearl.”

 

“They’re ‘doves’?” the prince asks, amusement clear in his voice. He finally puts away his teeth.

 

“Their wings are white,” Castiel clarifies. “From behind, Lucifer might appear to be a dove, but the under wing coverts were pearl.” When the prince looks at him without recognition, Castiel looks back with reciprocal confusion. Taking a guess, he adds, “The underside of the wings.”

 

At this, the prince nods. “And the rest?”

 

“Gabriel was bronze, Michael was goldenfeathered, and Raphael is a silverwing.”

 

“Not a bad color,” the prince says, tapping his circlet with his free hand. His other remains on Castiel, a constant touch and a constant barrier to everyone else. Behind them, some of the onlookers disperse. Several hesitate, clearly uncertain whether leaving unacknowledged would be more rude than remaining. “They get the hair color right?”

 

“On Gabriel and Raphael, although Raphael’s skin tone is a much darker brown. They’ve mixed up Lucifer and Michael, strangely.”

 

“The Demon Father was blond?” the prince asks. “Huh.”

 

“A sandy blond, but yes.”

 

“I’m guessing you do a lot of reading,” the prince says.

 

“A reasonable amount, Your Highness.”

 

“Where does it say angels weren’t all ‘doves’?”

 

“Are you looking for reading recommendations?” Castiel asks in turn.

 

The prince shows his teeth again, this time laughing. That sound, at least, is the same as among Castiel’s people. His hand squeezes on Castiel’s shoulder, fingertips dipping deeper between shoulder and wing.

 

Castiel does not react.

 

Castiel cannot react.

 

“So how about you?” the prince asks. He lifts his hand and. Touches. He. His palm. Over the wrist. Down the alula. Gentle, light, but. Touching. And somehow, Castiel does not twitch, not even as the prince strokes admiringly and asks, “Who has black wings? Or would that be ‘raven’?”

 

All the people behind them finally find something else to watch instead, and Castiel could not be more grateful. They pretend to give them distance, at least, and that is the best he’s going to get.

 

“Please don’t touch them,” Castiel rasps. He clears his throat, contains abrupt panic.

 

“They’re warm,” the prince says wonderingly. His hand hovers now, not withdrawing. His hand is also warm.

 

“A side effect of keeping them attached to my body.”

 

“Yeah, magic’ll do that,” the prince agrees. After a moment more, his hand returns to his side. “You’re going all out pretty early, gotta say.”

 

Castiel tilts his head, then has to readjust his mask. The band is a converted bootlace and doesn’t hold as well as Castiel would prefer. “How so?”

 

The prince gestures around them. “The first night is the opening bid for attention, yeah, good job there, but you have to leave room to escalate. Most people don’t bust out the magic until the third night, and that’s still on the early side.”

 

There’s sense in what he says. For the first time, Castiel considers his wings as a costume, rather than his costume as a disguise. As the prince seems to expect a response, Castiel answers, “I wasn’t going to leave my wings at home, Your Highness. I’ve put too much effort into them.”

 

The prince leans back and looks him over with admiration too strong for a species gap to mask. “I’m not criticizing. I’d be proud of those beauties too.”

 

Castiel has never been prone to vanity, but he feels himself flush all the same. He wills his feathers not to fluff and swallows hard. “Thank you.”

 

“Just a little confused, you know?” Castiel tilts his head again – this gesture seems to translate – and the prince adds, “You’re dressed to impress, but staying out on the edges. Shyest peacock I’ve ever seen.”

 

“I’m not here to socialize,” Castiel readily admits. “I came here to see.”

 

“What do you think? Tapestry aside.” Body still angled toward the object in question, the prince looks at him slantwise.

 

Castiel meets his gaze squarely. “I think I’d like to see more.”

 

Yet another kind of look, slow and sideways. “Not here to socialize, huh.”

 

Uncertain how to respond, Castiel doesn’t.

 

The prince looks down Castiel’s body, from the wrists of his hunched wings, down Castiel’s borrowed clothes, to his polished boots. He gestures to Castiel’s belt, the gleaming length of dark leather also borrowed from one of Castiel’s siblings. No, he gestures to the belt pouch, secured to Castiel’s hip and thigh.

 

“Your invitation in there?”

 

Castiel withdraws it and hands it over.

 

The prince reads it and laughs. “Chuck sent his plus-one over and stayed home?”

 

“I’m here in his place,” Castiel replies. “Seer Shurley was kind enough to afford me the opportunity.” In truth, the man had himself sought out one of their informants, handed over the invitation, and told them it would be the key to stopping the banished demons from flooding the world once more. Then he had scurried back to his apartments and his bottles.

 

“Well,” the prince says, handing the invitation back. “I’m glad he did. How is ol’ Chuck?”

 

“Drunk,” Castiel replies, because his reports are nothing if not accurate.

 

The prince laughs again, a pleasing and reassuringly angelic sound. This smile – is it a smile? – must indicate amusement, likely sincere. “That’s how Sam describes him too. He taught Sam a lot about controlling the visions, but I can’t say he teaches by example.”

 

Sam. The other prince is Prince Samuel, then, the Mage Prince and heir to the throne. Making this Prince Dean, Knight Prince, his brother’s protector. The silver-tipped horns suit the station after all.

 

“So you two teach at Carver University, is that it?” Prince Dean asks. He leans forward, horns lowering. “Or is your relationship more personal?”

 

“We’re collaborating on a project,” Castiel replies. The truth is always easier to remember and more convincing to tell, especially for a liar of his non-caliber. “His information has been crucial in my research, but I wouldn’t presume to call us intimate friends at this juncture.” Particularly as they have never met in person.

 

“He sees that far into the past these days?”

 

“His range is impressive,” Castiel replies, an answer vague enough not to be a lie. “Although many of his visions are so extremely specific as to render them almost useless.”

 

Prince Dean nods. “A lot of people don’t get that. I spend a lot of time explaining to people why Sam doesn’t send us out ahead of time to put out every single fire in the kingdom.”

 

“Scrying is a powerful but unwieldy gift. That His Royal Highness can focus on events in the immediate future is a great credit to him.”

 

“Yeah, he’s always been like that,” Prince Dean responds. Based on the prince’s tone, Castiel memorizes that expression as _proud_. “Even before he went off to mage school. Any chance you were there at the same time?”

 

None. He’s never visited. “Outside of my research, I keep largely to myself. I haven’t crossed paths with the majority of students still there.”

 

“Too busy being an angel expert,” Prince Dean says. “Did you seriously come to a masquerade to _study_?”

 

Castiel nods. “An invitation to Castle Winchester is a rare thing, and few structures have survived the demon wars so well. Fewer still of those were built in response to those wars.”

 

This expression is some sort of amused. Or curious, possibly amused and curious both. “And you wanted an excuse to wear those wings, didn’t you.”

 

“Very much,” Castiel agrees. The masquerade is their only window of opportunity, perhaps for a long time. If recognized as a real angel, he has no doubt the humans will refuse him aid. His people had slaughtered too many humans in order to destroy the demons contained within them. No, angels will not be welcome back into this world.

 

Showing his teeth, Prince Dean leans in close. He stands at the proper distance for a comrade-in-arms, close enough to touch with ease. Standing relaxed, their wings would brush. “You never did answer my question.”

 

He’s avoided answering multiple questions. Most of them, arguably. “My apologies. What question was that?”

 

“Who has black wings?” He indicates Castiel’s, which is a mistake, though a reasonable one.

 

“I’m a cinderwing,” Castiel replies. “The undersides are gray.”

 

Prince Dean’s eyes flit to Castiel’s wings, looking at each folded wrist where it rises over his shoulders. He stops showing his teeth quite so much, though his lips remain pulled in the same direction. “You made undersides no one is ever going to see.”

 

“I pride myself on my thoroughness, Your Highness.”

 

“I can tell,” Prince Dean replies. “Most people would be calling me ‘Sir’ by this point instead. Or ‘Sir Dean,’ if they were feeling friendly. But you’re still not answering my question. Which angel had wings like these?”

 

Castiel makes a decision. “Seraph Castiel, the warrior who captured Archdemon Alistair and served under the banner of Archangel Michael.”

 

“An interesting choice,” Prince Dean says. He tilts his head forward, green eyes shadowed by his mask. With the false horns of the mask, the motion reads as combative, but that is an unnatural extension Castiel wills himself to ignore. Surely the play of the prince’s mouth is a more salient detail. “Why pick him?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“Because my name is Castiel, Your Highness,” he answers.

 

“Sir Dean,” the Knight Prince corrects.

 

“Sir Dean,” Castiel repeats, and Prince Dean shows his teeth again.

 

“And what are your thoughts on dancing, Castiel Cinderwings?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“Effectively nonexistent,” Castiel answers.

 

Prince Dean laughs before seeming to realize Castiel is serious. “You really came here to study architecture?”

 

“Among other things, yes.”

 

Prince Dean shakes his head and remarks, “Maybe Sam should have come out here instead.”

 

“As I understand it, that would be a needless distraction. The goal of this event is for His Royal Highness your brother to find his spouse, and I cannot further that goal.”

 

The shape of the prince’s mouth remains the same, but the form of it hardens somewhat. “Would that be because you’re married?”

 

“No.”

 

“Engaged?”

 

“No.”

 

“Courting?”

 

“No.”

 

With each question and denial, Prince Dean seems to relax.

 

“Then,” Prince Dean says, “you must mean the excruciatingly open secret that Sam’s already picked our future queen, and all this is to make sure he’s sure. That, and to pass out the honor of the consolation prize.”

 

Castiel files away the first piece of new information and inquires after the second. “Surely you can’t think so little of yourself.”

 

The corners of Prince Dean’s mouth angle downward for an instant before he laughs. “I didn’t mean me.”

 

A misstep. How bad of one? “My apologies. I was surprised by the implication.”

 

“No, I, uh.” Prince Dean pauses. In approaching Castiel, in wordlessly dismissing their audience, in their entire dialogue, this is the first time Prince Dean hesitates. A human smile flicks into place across his features, teeth politely concealed – no, not politely, Castiel isn’t sure what it means – and Prince Dean shakes his head for further measure. “I mean, he still has to pick who he’s kissing.”

 

Gambling on any feature of human culture remaining the same for seven hundred years is an act of idiocy, but the context is a strong hint. “The Last Unwed Kiss is an old tradition, though the symbolism of the recipient is extremely varied.”

 

“Always thought they were meant to represent everyone you were giving up for your spouse,” Prince Dean says. “Kiss the temptation goodbye and all that.”

 

Not for the first time in this interaction, Castiel wonders if the prince’s informality is a test, a quirk, or some bizarre social norm. Perhaps a byproduct from patrolling the kingdom and interacting with the population? Unless the Knight Prince title has grown into an empty one. If it’s merely a polite moniker to indicate the lack of magical ability, and therefore inability to ascend to the throne, then Prince Dean might be a sheltered royal after all. Castiel doubts this but still can’t be certain.

 

There’s too little practical information on humans. Ironically, Uriel’s networks have focused _too_ well on the continuing demonic threat.

 

“Do you disagree?” Prince Dean asks when Castiel takes too long to respond.

 

Castiel digs deep for old gossip, things Balthazar told him centuries ago, laughing over human foolishness. “There have been incidents where the recipient of the last kiss was viewed as representing everything the intended spouse wasn’t. Meaning that to kiss a beautiful individual could be considered an insult to the attractiveness of the betrothed.”

 

Prince Dean laughs, though not nearly as much as Balthazar had. “Pretty insecure of them.”

 

“I believe the implication grew out of the practice of kissing a man upon marrying a woman, or vice versa,” Castiel explains. “These individuals were falsely viewed as being opposite in all ways.”

 

“So you mean if Sam’s marrying a short blonde woman, he shouldn’t kiss, say, a tall, dark-haired man.” Once more, Prince Dean turns his gaze over Castiel in his entirety.

 

“I mean that it would be an unnecessary qualification,” Castiel replies. “If the tall, dark-haired man represented adequate temptation toward another kind of life, that would be another matter.”

 

Still standing close, Prince Dean smiles with only his lips. He licks them, a quick motion, and when Castiel looks up to his eyes, he realizes he’s been caught staring. The human’s wingless body language is foreign in its subtleties, and the top half of his face is obfuscated. Castiel’s straining for social cues and hints of emotion, and Prince Dean finds him obvious in these observations. Castiel’s discomfort would already be blatant to another angel by the tight positioning of his wings, unnatural and immobile against his back, but he can hope Prince Dean will ignore them the same way Castiel ignores the horns of the prince’s mask.

 

Quickly mapping a conversational route to his true goal, Castiel presses forward on the first step. He brings the subject closer to the human in front of him. “Are you also searching for someone to kiss, Sir Dean?”

 

“Maybe,” says Prince Dean, the word stretching out like the corners of his mouth. “Whether to give up or keep, we’ll see. I have the luxury of taking my time, not like Sam’s birthday deadline. I’m in no rush.”

 

The next step forward. “This is one of the specifics of your position.”

 

“One of the perks,” Prince Dean agrees. “Right up there with the lighter crown.”

 

“Still, I would imagine your duties remain heavy.” Another step.

 

“I like the hunting,” Prince Dean says, and they have reached Castiel’s destination.

 

Castiel cocks his head to a polite angle of interest, as if merely mildly interested. “Are your hunts as focused on demons as the measures here would indicate?” How much of their activity have the humans noticed? Is anyone in the castle aware that demons are striving to reach an object housed here? Castiel may have five nights to investigate, but the demons have all the time in the world.

 

“We do everything,” Prince Dean tells him, and this expression is surely one of pride. “Some of my knights are trained even better than I am. Mages, you know. Always easier to light a creature on fire with magic than matches.” And this, this might be self-deprecation. Or he could be baiting.

 

“We all have our own specializations,” Castiel replies, as diplomatic as he knows how to be.

 

“True enough,” Prince Dean says. “Though we don’t have an angel expert on staff. Any chance you’re looking for work?”

 

“Only to continue the work I already have, Sir Dean,” Castiel answers, planning out how to pull the conversation back to demons.

 

“Well, if a real angel shows up, I’m still counting on you to tell me.” Prince Dean closes one eye behind his mask, a deliberate gesture of unknown meaning.

 

Castiel looks at him. He turns his head enough to confirm that his feathers are still lying neutrally flat. He looks back to Prince Dean and, trusting in his facade, says, “Hello.”

 

The jest lands well, and the prince laughs hard and loud. He stops quickly, clearly controlling himself, but he keeps looking at Castiel with one of those smiles of the lips, teeth hidden.

 

“What do you specialize in, Sir Dean?”

 

The mirth fades. There’s a motion of the shoulders that could be pride or defensiveness. Lifted wings can be aggressiveness, but what of human shoulders?

 

“I’ve trained for every creature our country has seen in centuries,” Prince Dean replies, a non-answer very similar to many of Castiel’s. Unlike the prince, Castiel acknowledges the dodge and refuses to move the conversation himself. He stands attentive, listening with ears and eyes both, until Prince Dean adds, almost flippantly, “I do a lot of ghosts.”

 

“With His Majesty your father’s fire magic, I can see why you might be predisposed.”

 

It immediately becomes obvious this was the wrong thing to say.

 

There are too many small signs to point to merely one – too small to point at one at all – but something has changed. It’s not the posture, not truly. It’s not the unchanging distance between them. It’s a sense of welcome that is abruptly a sense of rejection. It’s the difference between a world with air and the empty void from which Castiel has only been granted a temporary escape.

 

“As my grandmother’s sole heir, my father the king demonstrated the rare talent to be both knight and mage in one prince,” Prince Dean states, his voice as smooth as his renewed formality. This statement is more dismissal than explanation, and Castiel has only moments to recover the unexpected boon of the prince’s knowledge.

 

“I expressed myself poorly,” Castiel apologizes. Rudely, he does not pull his wings forward, doesn’t curve his primaries toward the prince and display the undersides in submission. Their agitated positioning only underscores his need to correct a mistake he doesn’t understand. “I merely meant that we are often predisposed toward that which we learn first, particularly from our respected elders.”

 

Though the unspoken dismissal lightens from unspoken command to implied preference, Castiel’s response is still clearly not enough. Accordingly, Castiel seizes the highest compliment he can think of and applies it.

 

“Bringing your people peace is the most noble of callings.”

 

It’s verbal fumbling, and they both know it.

 

Prince Dean eyes him for a long moment before replying, “When you said you didn’t come here to socialize, you really meant it.”

 

“It is not an activity I excel at, Your Highness,” Castiel agrees.

 

This, for some reason, seems to be sufficient apology.

 

Is it the king Castiel shouldn’t speak of again, or the king’s magic? He decides not to risk either, not unless or until he needs the prince to desire him gone. It’s clearly a conversational escape hatch with ramifications, and thus cannot be used lightly, if at all.

 

“It might be best if we were to return to debate,” Castiel says.

 

“Debate?” Prince Dean echoes. His head tilts back, but his jaw doesn’t particularly jut forward.

 

“Do you find the Colt Reforms sufficiently effective, for example? Do they go far enough?”

 

Again, Prince Dean studies him for a long moment.

 

Again, Castiel consciously keeps his body language agitated but unrepentant, wings tense, his colors concealed.

 

It occurs to him that his ignorance of proper human signaling may be enough to undo any verbal progress he can make. He’s certain he’s saying things in ways he doesn’t intend.

 

“They’re a foundation,” Prince Dean replies eventually. “They’re a good foundation, but we’re still building, seven centuries later. A lot of people don’t realize that, and it makes things difficult.”

 

Attentive, Castiel cocks his head, but the prince doesn’t continue. He says nothing about current or recent demonic activity in the kingdom.

 

No, Prince Dean shakes his head instead and says, “Shouldn’t talk shop at Sam’s party.”

 

“You did me the courtesy of listening when I did,” Castiel reminds him. “Would you truly permit me to be so rude as to ignore your turn?”

 

“Yours is less bloody,” Prince Dean replies. It’s arguably untrue, but Castiel keeps his silence on that subject. “Much better talk for a celebration.”

 

“If a celebration cannot also contain dignity and honor, I see no reason to partake.”

 

One side of Prince Dean’s mouth rises higher than the other. “You really don’t go to many parties, then.”

 

“I do not,” Castiel confirms. “I’m much too busy ‘talking shop’ instead.”

 

“Well, I guess that’s all right,” Prince Dean says, and Castiel can’t tell if it’s a joke, permission, or empty words. They look at each other for a long moment, perhaps expecting the other to say something first. Eventually, Prince Dean simply says, “Walk with me.”

 

Castiel follows, uncertain of the distance expected, or even permitted. This time, passing through crowds is simple. The amount of space the other guests provide him also serves as a hint as to how close they expect him to keep to the prince.

 

Prince Dean leads the way to the inner courtyard. The air is warm with firelight and the number of moving bodies. It’s warm enough for late April, according to Castiel’s admittedly distant memories of this world before the Banishing. At last able to see the stars, he feels… something. Around him, the stone walls of a human castle. Before him, the patterns of human music and dance, the first more orderly and sober than the second. Whirls of color, moving hints of outlandish costumes, a vast array of expense and sparkle, but none of it is quite as remarkable as the reality of that smudge of sky.

 

This isn’t simply about finding the tablet before the demons can find a way to retrieve it. Not when it could reverse one side of the Banishment without releasing the other. If he fails, a host of demons will spill back into this world.

 

If he succeeds, he brings his people home.

 

It was meant to be a quick ploy. Years of effort and magic and enchantments, carved into a set of tablets, but executed within a single hour. One to banish the most powerful of the demons, using themselves as a counterweight, and one to return themselves into the world to finish off a vastly weakened foe.

 

It should have been an hour.

 

With the second tablet lost, it has been over six centuries.

 

He stares up at the sky, and he remembers. Height, wind. Thermals and storms and the nuisance of insects. A world existing in its own right, comprised of more than mere simulacrum born of magic. An entire world, and a sky above it.

 

Two silver spikes enter the bottom of his vision. The horns of the prince’s mask.

 

Castiel realizes he’s been standing still much too long.

 

He tears his eyes away from the dark sky overhead, looking much lower, though still slightly upward. Prince Dean matches his gaze readily, as if having been waiting for it for some time. He offers Castiel a fluted glass and keeps its twin for himself.

 

“You looked ready to fly away,” Prince Dean murmurs under the music.

 

The temptation is as overwhelming as it is imbecilic.

 

Needing a moment to rally himself, Castiel accepts the drink with quiet thanks. The stem of the glass is thin, and their fingers require some untangling after the exchange. Castiel doesn’t remember the prince leaving his side in search of refreshments, but neither does he see a servant carrying a tray of drinks anywhere nearby.

 

The taste is light and dry, a foreign sensation in many ways. It busies his mouth all the same, largely in making sure he doesn’t spill. Balthazar is the one who indulges in human things, like food and fornication, not Castiel. Castiel has more traditional joys.

 

“Sometimes, I forget how much I enjoy fresh air,” Castiel admits. He lifts his face to the sky again and inhales deeply. “It’s lovely out here.” Few stars, no moon, and utterly beautiful even so.

 

“There’s a better spot over here,” Prince Dean tells him. His free hand returns to Castiel’s shoulder, guiding him, and although Castiel makes himself look where he’s going, the touch tells him he would have been led there safely even with his eyes shut.

 

From their new spot, farther away from the high doors leading back inside, there can be seen the faintest suggestion of light in the sky. The shrouded moon. Castiel’s eyes hunger for it.

 

After another long, selfish moment, he forces himself to look at the prince instead. He has four more nights, and surely one of them will have clear skies.

 

When he looks, Prince Dean is already looking back. Perhaps he has been the entire time.

 

“My apologies,” Castiel says. “I know I’m strange.”

 

“You’re here under Chuck’s invitation,” Prince Dean replies. “Strange is mandatory.” Clearly expecting some sort of response, he tilts his glass toward Castiel.

 

Uncomprehending, Castiel nevertheless mirrors the motion.

 

Lightly, Prince Dean taps the lips of their glasses together before drinking. Castiel drinks as well, and this is apparently acceptable.

 

Standing thus, off to the side, they observe the courtyard and are observed in turn. Castiel can only hope that the prince’s unexpected yet tacit approval will sway others to aid him. The night air is pleasant on his face, and his drink is almost tolerable by the time he finishes it. A servant appears nigh immediately to collect his glass and offer a new one. When Castiel declines, Prince Dean declines as well.

 

Before them, the dancing concludes for a moment. The gathered humans hit their hands together while the musicians see to their instruments. Seemingly as a group, they decide when they have made an appropriate amount of noise and stop. Some remain where they are, in the central circle marked by stone tiles and framed by urns of growing flowers. Others slip away to the indoors, to find other partners, or toward a long table lining the other side of the courtyard.

 

“What are your thoughts on dancing now?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“The geometric patterns were visually pleasing,” Castiel replies. He saw enough of the turns to visualize the steps from above.

 

Prince Dean looks at him for a long moment.

 

Castiel looks back. Would it be more appropriate to avert his eyes? This doesn’t appear to be a dominance display.

 

“You’re really not a fan, huh,” Prince Dean remarks nonsensically.

 

“I enjoyed watching,” Castiel assures him. The musicians finish tuning and pick up into a lively rhythm, and in a willing demonstration of that enjoyment, Castiel turns his head to view the dancers. He will be grateful for this attention and the status it bestows. Insofar as is possible, he will win this human’s favor, increasing his own access to areas of the castle. It’s a sound strategy, though the specific tactics necessary will be difficult to discern.

 

They stand and watch. Dancers whirl while instruments toss notes high. Partners join, separate, link arms, press hands. A stumbling pair give up entirely before staggering away toward the refreshments. Castiel sets his attention to the most blatant examples of emotion, analyzing each. The body language is easier to follow than the concealed motions of masked faces. At a frustrating pace, he learns, or perhaps he only hopes he does.

 

Overhead, a distraction grows. The clouds part, just enough. Although countless candles and hanging magelights illuminate the courtyard with enough light to mute the stars, the moon shines through more fully. It hangs heavy and gibbous, slowly rounding out like an egg of grace, full of glowing possibilities.

 

Castiel doesn’t mean to stare the way he does. When the gardens of the true world had failed to impress, he had assumed the rest of it would as well. But perhaps that was the pace of his mission spurring him on. Now, stretching a companionable silence and mentally reshaping his mission’s demands into innocuous questions, he has time to look.

 

Not much time, however: a toll from above, barely heard over the music and volume of speech, heralds the hour. Eleven o’clock. Time to disengage. He must secure his conversational partner for tomorrow night before losing him for the evening.

 

Again, he sets his mind to planning, but another distraction arises. At first so light a touch Castiel assumes it to be an insect, the contact strengthens. A feather knows a feather-light touch. It might be a fingertip. Perhaps a knuckle. The touch travels down each of his primary coverts in steady, barely present strokes. The progress goes in toward his spine, across his primary coverts, finding a few of his secondary coverts where they’re folded tight against his back. The path of that hand reverses well before reaching his scapular feathers and the down between his wings, but that contact would require a more blatant motion, namely fingers sliding under the back flap of his shirt.

 

No, this is light enough a touch that a costumed human would never feel it. It’s delicate. Stealthy but not furtive. This is a liberty Castiel is never meant to know the prince is taking. The prince must also be kept from knowing the depth of that liberty, and this reality holds Castiel’s tongue.

 

A costume, Castiel reminds himself. Whatever happens to his wings, he cannot, must not, feel it. No matter how warm, no matter how ticklish.

 

He decides to catch Prince Dean more innocuously, merely by turning toward the man. The touch falls from his wing at the first hint of motion, and Castiel barely catches sight of that hand swinging away to clasp behind the prince’s back.

 

“What do you think of dancing, Sir Dean?” As the last subject they spoke on, it’s a smoother conversational starter than immediately approaching the prince’s martial duties and information.

 

Prince Dean was already looking back when Castiel turned, and he angles his body toward Castiel’s in a similar manner. “I’m in favor,” Prince Dean replies.

 

“I hadn’t realized there was legislation on the subject.”

 

Prince Dean shows his teeth, but he does it somehow softly. “Wouldn’t matter. I’m not involved in legislation.”

 

“Might we discuss what you are involved with, tomorrow night?”

 

“What I’m involved with,” Prince Dean says slowly, “or _who_?”

 

“Both,” Castiel answers. He will take any information offered.

 

Prince Dean shows his teeth a little harder. He leans close, and the back of his hand brushes against Castiel’s. “Why wait until tomorrow?”

 

“I’ve kept you to myself too long,” Castiel says in what he hopes is a tone of apology.

 

“Sick of me already, huh?”

 

“I don’t take ill easily,” Castiel assures him, and this seem to be an acceptable response to the idiom.

 

Again, the brush of hand against hand. The motion is not accidental. “Then we could talk more tonight. I’d like to dance, but I don’t have to.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. He takes his cue from Prince Dean and shifts his hand, achieving a firmer touch. He holds Prince Dean’s gaze firmly while he does this, and it seems to be acceptable. “If it’s not a presumption to say, you should dance. But I’d like to secure the promise of your company for tomorrow evening.”

 

Prince Dean slips his fingertips against Castiel’s palm. He slides them downward, Castiel spreads his fingers, and Prince Dean threads them together, fingers woven, palm against palm. Handshakes have clearly changed over the centuries.

 

“Consider it secured,” Prince Dean tells him.

 

Castiel squeezes his hand, and Prince Dean returns the pressure.

 

“Thank you, Sir Dean,” Castiel says, sincere.

 

“My pleasure,” Prince Dean answers, and he sounds sincere as well. His thumb rubs over the side of Castiel’s index finger before he releases Castiel’s hand. He’s an extremely tactile human, and Castiel begins to better understand his desire to dance, to delight in a myriad of small touches. “Until tomorrow,” Prince Dean promises.

 

“Until tomorrow,” Castiel repeats. He bows slightly, stiffly, and turning his back is more difficult than he would have expected. For a brief instant, it makes the clench of his wings natural.

 

In the short time it takes him to reach the courtyard doorway and look back, no fewer than three people have joined Prince Dean. The prince selects one of them and they proceed to the center of the courtyard during a pause in the music. Though the mask makes it difficult to tell, it’s wholly possible Prince Dean looks up and meets Castiel’s gaze over his partner’s shoulder.

 

Then the dance begins. There is motion and distraction, and Castiel slips away.

 

Down long halls, through the entry chamber, and into the night, he keeps his steps measured. He counts his progress, timing himself against his own internal clock. There is more than enough time to spare, even navigating the hedge maze back to the portal’s location.

 

He stands there for nearly half an hour, waiting for it to open and looking at the sky. He formulates his report and drafts requests for aid. He needs more information on human customs, and he’ll need to improve his outfit each night if he is to fit in. He determines who to ask, who to order. While he thinks, the stars come out, and for precious minutes after, he doesn’t think at all.

 

Midnight tolls too soon, but he steps through all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [An illustration of Knight Prince Dean](https://mrshays.tumblr.com/post/177984575247/id-like-to-thank-bendingsignpost-for-permission), created by [lowkeyguru](https://lowkeyguru.tumblr.com), commissioned by [Mrs. Hays](https://mrshays.tumblr.com).


	2. Second Day

There is training in the morning, because there is always training in the morning. There’s Bobby shouting drills and Rufus running them. Bobby calls for werewolves, and four of their number take on the role, attacking in the established fashion, lunging for throats and clawing for chests, while the other knights counterattack. Bobby calls for vampires, for rugaru, for any number of creatures, and they shift tactics accordingly.

 

After the monster drills, they break apart for individual weapons. Cleric Jim puts Jo through her paces with knives while Dean claims Victor as his sparring partner. After the late night he’s had, it’s a mistake, but Dean refuses to back down even in the face of superior swordsmanship.

 

“Too much dancing last night?” Victor says, closer to a real question than a taunt, not the way Jo asked it while they ran laps earlier. Knighthood has made her cocky, and Dean increasingly misses the days of bossing her around as his squire.

 

“Not enough,” Dean shoots back, and then he gets scrappy. They’re training for survival fighting, not tournaments, and the dignity of his station has never been worth his life.

 

That’s his excuse, at any rate.

 

After – after the drills and the sparring, after the mages practice distance spells and the ungifted knights take to the crossbow – Dean showers, dresses, and sets out to find Sam. When no one seems to know where he is, Dean resigns himself to it being one of those days, and he tackles his thoughts alone.

 

He looks at familiar halls. He ambles through the throne room, taking in the huge stained glass window above his parents’ places, a glass wall of runes and warding. He wonders about a few things he never thought to wonder about, and then he climbs.

 

The observatory tower is high, but nothing Dean can’t handle. His legs hate him after last night and even more after this morning, and Dean hates them right back, one step after another. At the top of the winding stone stairs is a door, and behind the door, there is glass. Glass walls, glass domed ceiling, glass chambers within multiple telescopes.

 

Dean opens the door, sees the empty room, and hears Sam say, “Hey.”

 

Dean opens the door all the way, trapping Sam between it and the wall, quickly turning “Hey” into “Hey, quit it!”

 

Relenting, he steps through into the observatory and closes the door behind him. Sam straightens his shirt with a glare that turns into an eye roll.

 

“What’s up?” Dean asks.

 

Sam shrugs, sitting down in front of the largest telescope. He leans an arm on the metal frame. “You wanted to talk to me,” he says, not asking.

 

“So you’ve been hiding up here since breakfast?”

 

Sam shrugs again.

 

Dean pulls another stool away from one of the lesser telescopes. He sits, legs wide and rude. “What’d you dream about? Besides me coming up here.”

 

Sam stretches out a leg to kick him in the knee. “Don’t let Mom catch you like that.”

 

Dean counters by setting his legs apart even wider, more and more crass until Sam snorts. Then he sits normally, before his pants can split at the crotch. “Seriously, what is it?”

 

“I’m pretty sure it was just a dream,” Sam says, which is weird.

 

“Dude, the last time you couldn’t tell a vision from a dream, you were, like, six.”

 

“If it was a vision, it contradicts,” Sam reasons. “And my visions don’t contradict. I’m not like Chuck, I don’t get the whole jumbled mess of possibilities.”

 

Dean knows this. Sam knows Dean knows this. And Dean knows that if Sam knows Dean knows this, then Sam’s trying to reassure himself.

 

“So what’s this vision that’s never going to happen?” Dean asks. “Dream, whatever.”

 

“Look, I already told Dad and he – it’s stupid.”

 

Dean raises his hand in oath. “I will not laugh. Unless it’s fucking moronic, in which case, I will totally laugh.”

 

Sam shoots him a bitchface.

 

“Don’t let Mom catch you like that,” Dean taunts, and Sam laughs.

 

“All right, fine,” Sam says. “It’s, uh.” He pulls away from the telescope, fiddling with his own hands instead of the dials. “It was in the throne room.”

 

Dean nods along. “I have a lot of nightmares in there too.”

 

“Of Mom and Dad on fire?” Sam asks. He looks at Dean in that way he has, not just with his eyes but with his whole face. “Because they were on fire. They were on the dais and they…” Sam takes a deep breath. “It felt like a vision, mostly.”

 

“Mom _and_ Dad on fire,” Dean checks. “Dad wouldn’t catch fire if you dropped him in a bonfire. He’s too good. Besides, if anyone’s fire went after Mom, Dad could wrest control of it like that.” He snaps his fingers.

 

“Yeah, I told you, it’s stupid.” Sam picks at some invisible mark on his hand. “Dad thinks it’s a holdover nightmare from visiting Charlie. Y’know, the rugaru attack on the way back.”

 

“From Jo blasting the crap out of that thing?” Dean asks.

 

“That _thing_ was a person, Dean,” Sam says.

 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “ _Was_. Before it became a thing.” Sam opens his mouth to argue and Dean presses forward. “We’re not having this argument right now. We can hash out your policies on transformed subjects when you’re king. Point is, you saw Jo throw the biggest fireball of her life and you’d never seen anything – anyone – burn before. Yeah?” As the heir, King John has never risked Sam on an actual hunt, not even back in the days when their father was Crown Prince John and Dean was Bobby’s squire.

 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “It was just… this inferno.”

 

“Jo was surprised too,” Dean tells him. “Did you know that? She’s been trying to match that fireball for months in training, but no dice. So I don’t think you gotta worry about another inferno.”

 

“Guess she got pretty inspired, pushing me out of the way,” Sam says, weirdly bitter about it.

 

“Pretty much,” Dean says. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s pulled off ridiculous magic to impress you.”

 

Sam shrugs a little, eyes still distant. He looks out an entire wall’s worth of windows.

 

“What’s the other part?” Dean asks. “Was I a pile of ash or something?”

 

Still looking away, Sam shakes his head. “You were yelling for me.”

 

“All right,” Dean says slowly. “What else was weird about the dream? What makes it not a vision? Besides Mom and Dad being on fire, which we both know is impossible.”

 

“All I could see was them. Their bodies. I think they were still alive when I woke up – I mean, in the dream, they were still alive in the dream when I woke up. I know they’re still actually alive.”

 

“Breakfast was a giveaway, there,” Dean agrees. Well, he assumes: he’s always in training by the time his parents are breakfasting. “So you’re saying you couldn’t look around.”

 

“I’m not sure,” Sam says. “It felt almost like something was keeping me from looking anywhere else?”

 

“Did you feel someone restraining you in the dream?” Dean asks, repeating that word. Dream, not vision. The kid’s got guilt enough for not seeing every disaster in the world coming. He doesn’t need these nightmares too.

 

“You know how I normally know if I’ll be at the event or not?” Sam asks. “Like, it’s either my perspective from my own eyes, or a viewpoint like I’m watching through a window?”

 

“This had both?” Dean guesses.

 

“It felt like I was there but not looking out of my own eyes. I don’t know, it didn’t make sense.”

 

“Any idea on the time frame?” Dean asks.

 

“My birthday,” Sam answers immediately. “It was definitely my birthday.” Otherwise known as the day he has to propose. Engagement nerves?

 

“Okay, so, in three days, we fireproof Mom and Dad,” Dean promises him. “Well, we fireproof Mom and get Dad in his burn-resistant mage robes.”

 

“It was as real as a vision, but I don’t think…” Sam trails off.

 

“Stop looking at it,” Dean orders.

 

Sam’s gaze jerks back from the windows to Dean’s face.

 

“Whatever you’re picturing in your head, stop looking at it,” Dean repeats. “I’ve seen that face on a lot of knights after hunts, and staring at that shit never helps. All right?”

 

Sam nods.

 

“You said there was a contradiction?” Dean prompts, moving his brother along in every way he knows how. “You’ve had other visions with Mom and Dad alive, right? And further out than three days.”

 

More firmly this time, Sam nods again. “Uh, yeah.” His mouth twists in a way Dean hates. “Think that’s why Dad told me it was just nerves.”

 

Because their father is right. “Tell me about the other vision,” Dean says. “What’s after this week?”

 

“My, uh. My wedding,” Sam says.

 

Dean grins a little, encouraging his brother to do the same. “Yeah? When’d you have that vision?”

 

Smiling faintly, Sam looks down at his folded hands. “Guess I can tell you now. Finally told Jess last night, before the party.”

 

“All right, now I’m really interested.”

 

“The night before I met Jess, I saw us getting married,” Sam admits. “Us kneeling facing each other, Mom putting the marriage crown on her head, you sticking mine on me, Dad officiating, the whole thing.”

 

“You serious?” Dean asks. “That’s gotta be, what, three years ago, and you never mentioned?”

 

“Didn’t want to freak her out,” Sam says. “Besides, once I found out she was a mage and a baroness? Kinda assumed it was just going to be a political match.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dean calls. “I don’t believe you ever looked at that girl for one second and thought it would be ‘just a political match.’”

 

“Yeah…” Sam says, dopey and grinning and looking away.

 

“Point is,” Dean says, “you can’t get married before your birthday, and Mom and Dad are alive at your wedding. So they’re fine. It’s gonna be fine. And to make sure it’s going to be fine, we’re gonna tell Bobby and he’s going to ramp up security as much as it can go, all right? We’ll put our couple of water mages in the throne room and figure out how to supply them with water without it being obvious. Lots of vases of flowers or something, anything we can fill up.” The more Dean talks, the more confident his words grow. “But c’mon, man. There isn’t a fire spell Dad can’t wrest control of. Anyone who tried to burn him would get their own flames back in their face.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, more quiet. He nods. “Thanks.” He picks at his hands a little bit more before adding, “It really might be stress. Jess is pretty worried too.”

 

“Being queen is pretty big,” Dean says. “Makes sense.”

 

Sam laughs a little and looks up at Dean, is sitting slouched enough to need to look up. “Would you believe that’s not what she’s worried about?”

 

Dean pretends to think about it, then snaps his fingers. “It’s being stuck with your snoring forever, isn’t it?”

 

“She thought I might change my mind,” Sam says. “She thought there was a chance night five would roll around and I’d pick someone else.”

 

“You are technically looking for someone to kiss,” Dean points out.

 

“Yeah, to kiss _goodbye_ ,” Sam says. “She kept telling me it wasn’t that she thinks I’m disloyal, just that, I don’t know, I should consider every option? But I don’t _want_ another option. I barely even got to talk to her last night, because I was too busy dancing with literally every unmarried person in the kingdom.”

 

“Not _every_ unmarried person,” Dean says. There’s one he knows for sure didn’t dance.

 

“It felt like it,” Sam says. “I don’t want to have to keep reassuring Jess I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Just four more nights,” Dean promises him. “Then you can cause a diplomatic incident giving your Last Unwed Kiss to a servant with the drinks tray and go off to get engaged.”

 

Despite the high caliber of Dean’s jokes, Sam doesn’t laugh. “I don’t want to wait to make a formal announcement.”

 

“Yeah, well, you gotta.”

 

“I know, I just.” Sam groans. “Dean, I don’t want to.”

 

“Suck it up,” Dean tells him. “Make it informal if you have to. Tell people you won’t dance unless they bring a partner for Jess too.”

 

“Dean, she just sat through an entire night of people flirting with me in front of her. I can’t keep doing that to her. If she hadn’t gotten to meet that new doctor the Royal Hospital is flaunting, the entire thing would have been a bust as far as she’s concerned. Which is as far as I’m concerned.”

 

“Fine, fair point,” Dean says. “So what are you going to do instead?”

 

“Offend a lot of people, probably,” Sam admits.

 

“That’s my boy!”

 

Sam glares. He glares until he laughs, and then they both look out the windows for a bit. The world is bright and nearly warm, and Dean won’t be out in it again until after Sam’s wedding. Inside, looking out, he misses it as much as he misses his mattress when he’s outside, looking in.

 

“Maybe she could stay with you,” Sam says.

 

“Between a night with me and a night watching people flirt with you, pretty sure she wouldn’t pick me.”

 

“You just don’t know each other well enough yet,” Sam says, the way he always does.

 

“She thinks I’m rude.”

 

“Dean, you _are_ rude.”

 

“Hey, regular people think I’m hilarious,” Dean tells him. When Sam only looks at him thoughtfully, Dean asks, “What?”

 

“Regular people,” Sam repeats.

 

“Yeah. People who do shit with their hands. Regular people. Y’know, the ones the knights and I protect and stuff. Those people.”

 

“I think you’re the only noble I know who would call them ‘regular’ instead of ‘common,’” Sam says, like this distinction is somehow important.

 

Dean shrugs. “So?”

 

“So I think you’re the closest Jess has ever gotten to talking to a ‘regular’ person.”

 

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Pretty sure Jess has met a servant, Sam. Or a guard, or any of the hundreds of people in and out of here we have to keep track of. You may not have noticed this, but they kind of outnumber us. Besides, no son of the king gets to be a ‘regular’ person.” A Knight Prince might be the royal family’s gift to the people, but that doesn’t make him one of them.

 

Sam looks at him, serious and mystifying. “I’m glad you’ll help me be king, Dean.”

 

Dean blinks. “Uh, yeah. Not sure how that relates, but yeah. I mean, my job is killing things and keeping you safe, not in that order, but I’ve got your back.”

 

“So you’ll keep Jess with you tonight?”

 

“Nice try, but no.”

 

Sam smiles a little. Only a little, but it counts. “It was worth a shot.”

 

“Really wasn’t.”

 

They look out the windows some more. Dean stands, moving around the tower until he can look down into the courtyard. Small shapes clean and redecorate down below, preparing. Sam looks down with him.

 

“You did want to talk to me, right?” Sam asks, as if he hadn’t set himself in Dean’s path by coming up here. Having a precognizant brother can be strange that way.

 

It’s Dean’s turn to shrug a little, casual. “You still believe in angels, right?”

 

Sam lets out a small groan. “They were real, Dean. Chuck – Seer Shurley, from Carver University? He agreed with me. Just because no one’s seen any in seven hundred years doesn’t mean they didn’t exist at some point.”

 

“This isn’t actually about the time you drew in my bestiary, Sammy.”

 

“Dean, I was eight and they should have been in there. It was a bad bestiary.”

 

“Still not the point,” Dean says.

 

“Then the point is…?”

 

“That you were interested in all that shit when you were little. And medium. And stupidly tall.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“What stuff do we have with angels?” Dean asks.

 

This is clearly not what Sam was expecting: always an accomplishment. “Well, there’s that tapestry with the Severing of Lucifer, that’s the biggest one.”

 

“Yeah, besides that,” Dean says. “I mean, paintings, relics, there’s gotta be something.”

 

Sam looks at him oddly. Carefully, he asks, “Dean, are you hunting an angel?”

 

“No,” Dean says, but he thinks of dark wings and it comes out sounding like a lie.

 

The odd look ratchets up about three notches. “Are you sure?”

 

“I was having a conversation,” Dean explains, “and now I’m looking for more stuff to talk about.”

 

“To talk about angels,” Sam says.

 

Because Dean is an adult man, he replies, “He started it.”

 

The odd look immediately swaps out for a knowing one. “And ‘he’ is…?”

 

“Chuck’s plus-one, believe it or not,” Dean says.

 

“What, Chuck came?” Sam asks. “He didn’t even say hello.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “He sent this guy in his place. They’re doing some kind of research project, one of those books-and-visions combos you love –”

 

“Corroborating evidence is important.”

 

“– and we got to talking. I just figure, Chuck helped you out with the visions and all, so, y’know, it just makes sense. To see if we have more angel shit. We do, right?”

 

“To thank Chuck,” Sam says, voice flat.

 

“It would be polite,” Dean says. “We could show Mom how polite I’m being, she’d be thrilled.”

 

Sam starts snickering. He doesn’t even bother to hide it behind his hand.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“You like a guy who believes in angels,” Sam singsongs.

 

“I will tell Lady Rosen she still has a chance with you,” Dean threatens. “Shut your face, or it’s Becky time.”

 

Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Don’t do that to Jess.”

 

“Fine, just tell me what we’ve got.”

 

Sam thinks about it before he begins the disappointingly short list. “Plus maybe some of that stuff in the vaults,” he adds. “You’d want to check that out first, though, make sure. There’s some cursed items down there too.”

 

“Right, because nothing says a good time like ‘follow me down into this cursed basement,’” Dean says.

 

“Hey, you asked.”

 

Dean nods, both acknowledgment and thanks. “Think I’ll hold off on the basement stuff, at least. Even with Chuck’s approval, I’m not bringing a stranger down near the vaults until I’m sure about him.”

 

“What’s he like?” Sam asks. “Besides pretty.”

 

“Nope,” Dean says. “I got what I wanted, no more questions. Thanks, Sammy.”

 

Sam catches his arm before he can take more than a step. Far too serious, Sam says, “I won’t laugh. I just… want to hear something happy.”

 

Curse his sad little face.

 

“He’s… weird,” Dean says. “Deadpan. Really deadpan.” His eyes are blue behind a black feathered mask. “Dry enough humor to drain a lake.” He stares at Dean’s mouth and listens to his every word. Not like he’s sucking up, but like every detail is crucial. “But he knows his stuff. We got into it over the Colt Reforms.” He views the measures the same way Dean does, as a means to protect the most people.

 

“Yeah?” Sam says, like he’s expecting some kind of mushy story.

 

“He’s just not what you’d expect,” Dean says, shrugging.

 

“Not what you’d expect from what?” Sam asks. “A friend of Chuck’s?”

 

“From the kind of person who goes all out on the first night,” Dean says. “A real attention grabber. Guy has these two giant wings magically strapped on.”

 

Sam laughs but quickly covers his mouth. “Hence the angel thing?”

 

“More like angel thing, hence the wings,” Dean corrects. “He’s named after one, apparently. The name ‘Castiel’ mean anything to you?”

 

Making a slight face, Sam thinks about it before shaking his head. “Something about fighting an archdemon, I think? Can’t remember anything besides that. Then again, I haven’t been eight in a while.”

 

“Oh, please, this didn’t stop when you were eight.”

 

“That’s it, no more help.”

 

“Too late, you’ve already told me everything.”

 

“Dean, you came up to the observatory looking for ‘stuff with angels.’ You need all the help you can get.”

 

“You know you don’t actually know everything, right? I came up here for a backup plan. See the view, check if there were chairs.”

 

Sam looks slightly less judgmental at that, but only slightly. “Romantic night of stargazing, huh?”

 

Dean could tell him about the way Castiel had stopped in his tracks upon exiting into the courtyard. He could try to describe the way the man’s head had tilted back, the feathers of his mask and wings gleaming in the firelight. The line of his neck. The hunger of his body, all directed skyward.

 

Not even at a clear sky, but a cloudy one. Barely any stars, barely a moon, and yet Castiel had watched that square of sky as if one of the grandest events of the year wasn’t taking place directly in front of him. There was longing in him, first nonsensical and blatant, then quiet and carefully concealed, and Dean… Dean is not immune to this. The most interesting new face at the party, and then that. He had joked about Castiel looking about to fly away, but he’d meant it, too.

 

If he can’t give Castiel angels, then he’ll give him stars. And if Castiel shows signs of wanting Dean more than those gifts, well, then Dean will have something to think about, won’t he?

 

Dean could say any of that, but he chooses instead to shrug. “Don’t knock the classics.”

 

“You do know you have to tailor it to the person for it to actually be romantic, right?”

 

“Says the guy who courted Jess in a _library_.”

 

“Yeah, and she is _marrying me._ ”

 

Dean waves a dismissive hand. “You done?”

 

“Never,” Sam says, but he follows Dean to the only stone portion of the wall and through the door. As they descend the stairs, he winces and grumbles, and Dean laughs at him.

 

“You need more exercise, little brother.”

 

“Not my fault you get to go everywhere,” Sam shoots back.

 

 _Get to._ The disconnect rattles Dean’s brain for an instant.

 

“Not my fault you get to stay,” Dean counters, and is perversely pleased when this seems to rattle Sam too.

 

Before they reach the bottom of the cramped stairs, Sam stops behind him and Dean pauses in turn, even before Sam catches his shoulder.

 

“Someone outside the door?” he whispers, thinking of years spent hiding from tutors together.

 

Sam shakes his head. “Not a vision, just a thought. He doesn’t have kids, right? Did you ask?”

 

Something clenches inside him, something he chooses not to look at too closely. “Even if he did, no one’s gonna try to claim his kids are my bastards, Sam. He could be a father of twelve tiny mages without it fucking up the succession.”

 

“Right, yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “Sorry. I know that. I just don’t want to see you burned again.”

 

“It’s not gonna be a problem, so leave it alone.” He straightens his shoulders and opens the door, forcing Sam to follow and, more importantly, to shut up in front of the staff.

 

“Do you want me to look into the items in the basement?” Sam offers as they walk. “I know you’re reviewing security measures with Sir Robert, so if you don’t have the time, I could handle it.”

 

“Sam, if you don’t get some downtime, you’re not going to enjoy your own party,” Dean tells him.

 

“Which is exactly why I should rummage through magical artifacts in the basement,” Sam says. “I’ve been looking for an excuse, but I never get around to it. Too many pressing duties. With Parliament out of session, I actually have the time.”

 

Dean doesn’t actually have a counterargument to that. Instead, he just says, “Nerd.”

 

“Excuse me, that is not my full title, you ill-mannered swine.”

 

“Pardon me, Your Royal Dorkness, Lord High Nerd of the Realm.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Dean grins at nothing in particular. “You’re good, right?” Nightmare visions and all. He has to check.

 

“Yes,” Sam says, nodding. When Dean shoots him a look, Sam leans in close and says, the way he’s not meant to say in public, “ _Yeah_.”

 

“Then we’re good. You all right with me passing that dream along to Bobby, just in case?”

 

Sam hesitates but nods, and Dean nods back. If Dean were anyone else, he wouldn’t have seen that hesitation, and it speaks well of Sam. But then, most things speak well of Sam.

 

They part at the doors to the throne room. Sam returns to their father the king without a backwards glance, and Dean makes his way back to the barracks.

 


	3. Second Night

Seventeen hours is not enough time to prepare. There is the debriefing and multiple reports. He puts in requests with Uriel, with Balthazar, with Hannah. He bows his neck and prostrates his wings before Raphael, delivering the salient details in person. At the news that Castiel has made contact with a member of the human royal family, Raphael considers being pleased, a rare feat.

 

Uriel leaves to seek out the few members of his network besides himself who have actually observed human culture in the past sixty years. Balthazar takes Castiel aside for conversational sparring. It requires the strain that all conversation in this airless place requires: they extend their grace to thicken the empty void between them, and it is this that carries the flattened sounds of their voices. Castiel turns the subject away from himself, toward demons and angels and tablets, and Balthazar tuts every time Castiel’s wings so much as rustle. It’s easier when Hannah holds the bubble of grace for him, but the strain is the point of the exercise.

 

They look at his worn battle uniform and make adjustments to this, the only outfit he has. Some are small alterations, others outright substitutions. To fit in means to stand out, and Castiel has little eye for fashion among even his own people.

 

Balthazar gets started on preparing better outfits for the following nights, and he takes away Castiel’s mask for improvements as well. It could stand to be filled out further, which means checking his wings for loose feathers, which leads to a full grooming, which leads to holding still while he slowly lets his wings unclench.

 

While he stands and tries to push the tension from his body, Uriel returns. He takes Castiel’s questions, listens when Hannah adds more, and they all soon discover the very real limits of their knowledge. When Castiel asks, they both pronounce themselves mystified over his descriptions of human facial expressions. In a bid for better understanding, Hannah attempts to replicate a few, and at least Castiel’s feathers fluffing in amusement helps the grooming along. In return, Castiel attempts to demonstrate, or at least better describe the motions of Prince Dean’s face. He doesn’t have words for most of the motions. Hannah asks if he’s certain the bared teeth don’t indicate aggression.

 

Once she finishes preening him, Hannah excuses herself and returns with Joshua in tow, and the older angel is a much better resource than the angels, such as Castiel himself, who were only several centuries old at the time of the Banishing. Most of Joshua’s work is in replicating the world they once knew, simulacra full of magic and empty of substance, serving to fill this void in which they’ve found themselves trapped.

 

Castiel mentions the sky to him, the stars and moon, and the quiet rustling of Joshua’s wings only underscores the importance of Castiel’s mission. If the tablet had never been lost, never been stolen, never disappeared from them in whatever manner it had in truth disappeared, so much would be different. An impossible amount.

 

He’ll get it back.

  
  


He steps through the minor portal, contorting the magical core of his being in the way only the young are capable of. Behind him, his compatriots give up their strain and allow it to snap shut. Misting whorls of power spiral off from that point of entry and fade away.

 

He makes quick work of the hedge maze but long work of the entry line. The guard who checks his invitation is the same as the first night, blond hair braided tight at the base of her neck, beneath a formal helmet. Her inspection is quicker, almost cursory, and Castiel imagines she’ll only grow faster as the nights progress without incident.

 

Inside, he’s less certain where to proceed. Seeking the prince out immediately could serve as an act of punctuality or one of impertinent demand. Deciding it best to make himself known, Castiel faces the secondary problem of finding one specific human in a vast crowd of them. He can only hope that the theme of each person’s costume remains the same across all five nights, and he will be able to identify Prince Dean by the impala horns. Glimpses of hair color are a poor substitute for the clarity of wings.

 

He starts with the great hall, with its equal parts feasting and dancing. He checks the side halls and lingers by the inaccurate tapestry. He braves the temptation of the courtyard and keeps his eyes low, away from the sky, but he still does not see the prince.

 

He proceeds to the throne room.

 

The decorations are grand, the music loud and stately. Whereas the courtyard hosts a party, this room houses a state function. Backs are straight, voices are polished. It’s a room of ornamental swords, and Castiel’s first instinct is to leave in search of the true blade he seeks.

 

He sees the horns, then, golden-tipped upon the throne. Moving to stand off to the side, his wings brushing against a pillar of white marble when he settles, he studies the king and queen. The fire mage’s hair is charcoal-black despite his middling age. Her hair as golden as her crown, the queen’s appearance gives little hint as to her own talents; only through prior knowledge does Castiel know her magical gifts lie with the weather, more toward prediction than manipulation. It’s thought that this skill in elemental prediction may have sparked her second son’s gift of visions.

 

They both wear crowns as part of their masks, for there is little point in disguising such power. King John’s mask carries the horns; Queen Mary’s does not. Behind them, behind the tall thrones upon a raised dais, there is an immense stained glass window, patterned with spells and protections. There is vulnerability in such a window, or perhaps arrogance, and then Castiel remembers the barrier of water against the back of the castle. For the earthbound, perhaps the grand window is less a tactical mistake than it seems to Castiel. When light shines through in the daytime and casts the protective runes across the thrones themselves, it might even be considered to their benefit.

 

After surveying a number of key features of the room – the positioning of guards, the clustering patterns of humans, the locations of all obvious exits – he allows his eyes to be caught by the dancing. In this way, Castiel finds him.

 

The first pair of horns is as gold-tipped as his father’s, but they rise high over the array of dancers. Near these rises a second pair, tipped in silver. They move together, apart, following patterns in parallel before sweeping away. Each prince dances with a shorter partner. Castiel watches and he is not alone in observing. He cranes his neck but refuses to rise on tiptoe, his balance too compromised by his bound wings.

 

The dancing goes on seemingly without end. At some predetermined mark, the taller prince exchanges his partner for another. Sometimes, it’s when the song changes into another. At others, it’s an almost hasty dismissal. Throughout, the shorter prince maintains his partner, a woman with hair the same color as the queen’s. Her relatively tiny stature provides a challenge in viewing her further through the crowd and the dancers, but Castiel does catch a glimpse of a blue mask.

 

At last, there comes a pause in the music. As they did the night before, the humans hit their hands together into an answering, disjointed response. The prince with the golden-tipped horns even lifts his hands high to lead this burst of percussion. The human standing before the musicians bows on their behalf. Several of the musicians fuss at their instruments while others retrieve drinks from servants standing nearby for that express purpose.

 

Having learned from the night before, Castiel better camouflages himself by striking palm against palm. He stops when those around him do. Ahead of him, the taller prince, Mage Prince Samuel, lowers his hands. The horns of his mask stand in parallel as the prince faces in Castiel’s direction. They tip to the side as he speaks to his brother, portraying for an instant the image of two animals butting heads. The silver-tipped horns turn sharply toward Castiel.

 

Castiel keeps his breathing steady. He keeps his arms relaxed at his sides. He wills his feathers not to flatten further.

 

Prince Dean speaks with his brother, abruptly ignoring his dancing companion. With golden hair twisted artfully atop her head, she remains standing near the princes. The brothers discuss something, Prince Dean’s hands waving, Prince Samuel standing still and poised. The woman touches Prince Samuel’s elbow, leans up to say something, and receives a nod. She and Prince Dean nod at each other in turn. She walks away first, toward the musicians or perhaps seeking the servants with the drinks. Prince Dean turns toward Castiel, and even across the people and space in between, they lock eyes.

 

The deliberate motion emphasized by his horns, Prince Dean tilts his head back.

 

Uncertain of how else to proceed, Castiel bends his back in a gentle bow. Those around him take notice, especially when Prince Dean tilts his head again.

 

Castiel replicates this motion.

 

The movement low, kept beneath the belt, Prince Dean lifts his hand slightly, palm up.

 

There are people watching now, and Castiel does not pull his wings even tighter against his back. He holds them as still and calm as his hands as he replicates the prince’s gesture.

 

Prince Dean motions again with his hand, holding it farther out from his body, his palm more pronounced. He is clearly indicating Castiel has done something incorrect.

 

Castiel adjusts the angle of his hand.

 

Watching this as so many others are, Prince Samuel leans in close to his brother and places a hand on his shoulder. He says something, receives a light elbow in the side, and pushes his brother smoothly forward. Prince Dean faces his brother even while walking toward Castiel, and guests and servants alike back out of his way. The princes say something to each other, and, still walking backwards, Prince Dean makes an elaborate bow that his brother laughs at, teeth and horns gleaming equally.

 

At last, Prince Dean turns to face the direction he’s walking in, and he closes the gap between them with smooth, almost stalking steps.

 

Unsure of whether to drop his hand, Castiel errs on the side of keeping it slightly outstretched. Prince Dean notices his hesitation and rewards his inaction with a greeting Castiel has observed multiple times tonight. Prince Dean takes hold of Castiel’s fingers by their tips, lifts their hands, and bows his head over them before releasing. It’s a greeting accomplished without looking at their hands: the prince’s eyes are locked on Castiel’s the entire time.

 

“Do you have something against dancing?” Prince Dean asks. “Is that it?”

 

Even with Joshua’s coaching, Prince Dean’s expression is difficult to parse. Lips up is a smile, lips down is a frown, teeth showing is a grin, but smiles and grins can both be false when made by the mouth. Castiel studies the prince’s mouth and gambles that this is teasing, not true agitation.

 

“I have nothing against dancing, Sir Dean,” he says, watching the prince’s lips for a change of mood. “I simply have other interests.” Failing to see anything in his mouth, Castiel looks up to instead inspect the prince’s eyes.

 

Behind his mask, Prince Dean’s eyes are wide, a round and pleasing green. “What would those interests be?” he asks, his voice abruptly deeper. It’s not a growl: humans don’t growl.

 

From the corner of the grand room, the music resumes. Sounds rush in while others rush out, waves of conversation breaking to give way to the swish of cloth and precise steps of feet. It’s strange, to hear so much. He has lived too long in a world where every sound must be deliberately carried.

 

“Might we discuss them somewhere quieter?” Castiel asks. Remembering Prince Dean’s dance partner, he adds, “Unless I’m interrupting. You were already engaged.”

 

The corner of the prince’s mouth moves. “You want to wait here while I dance with someone else?”

 

“I’m willing to,” Castiel replies. He stands tall, at attention, indicating his readiness to wait. Surely waiting for the prince’s guidance would still be more efficient than searching on his own. Similarly, the more guards who see him in the prince’s company, the better.

 

Prince Dean’s mouth widens, his teeth showing. “That was Jess. Lady Jessica. I was keeping her company for Sam, but she’s probably off healing her own feet at this point.”

 

Castiel has very little idea what to make of that. Instead, he focuses on his goal. “Then you’re available to converse, Sir Dean?”

 

“I’ve got some time,” Prince Dean replies. He indicates a direction, pointing with the horns, and Castiel falls into step with him, heading toward the high doorway Castiel didn’t enter through.

 

In the hallway, the music of the throne room clashes against that of the courtyard, an almost pleasing discord. His siblings sometimes sing like this, seeking to drown each other out. Or, they used to sing like this. The centuries and silence have not been kind.

 

He keeps to Prince Dean’s side, listening to music fading under the murmur of so many speaking, hearing yet more instruments from up ahead. They enter the great hall, its tables laden with food and its benches full of humans. At the far side, there is a small band, all instruments of air, and yet another area for dancing.

 

“Hungry?” Prince Dean asks. This seems rhetorical, as the prince never stops in his approach to the serving tables.

 

“I could be persuaded to eat,” he answers honestly enough. He knows he can, though it’s never something he chose to indulge in, back in the days when it was an option. A realm of nothingness, monotony broken only by illusions, is not conducive to the growing of crops or the keeping of livestock. Perhaps if it had been, the boredom of their existence might mean those pastimes would be thought of as more than the hobbies of eccentrics.

 

“Sam told me all about the grub you get over at that university of yours,” Prince Dean says. “Trust me, it won’t take much of an argument.” He takes a small plate from a stack on the end of the table and begins to fill it, at times using silver tongs, at times picking directly with his fingers. Castiel follows his example, recognizing certain items as plants and others as meat. Beyond these basic distinctions, he’s lost.

 

They move to one of the tables spotted with individual plates instead of trays, and they sit. Prince Dean stiffly steps over the bench, the fabric of his trousers disagreeing with the motion. For his part, Castiel sidles around the end of the bench and sits as far back on it as he can, the wood digging into the backs of his knees on one side and pressing against the undersides of his wings on the other. Despite the discomfort, there is a pleasant novelty in having a seat.

 

As he settles beside the human, Prince Dean watches him. Not his face or hands, but his wings. “You’re all right sitting like this?” he asks.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Castiel answers, surprised by the concern.

 

He observes the ways those around them eat, their uses of forks and fingers, the size of their bites and the length of their chewing. Curiously, Prince Dean’s eating habits more closely resemble those of the guests in the less elaborate costumes. Uncertain of where his guise as a scholar puts him in social rankings, he decides to split the difference and use a fork. In practice, he’s certain he comes across as overly fastidious, but it’s better to appear fussy about eating rather than ignorant.

 

This thoughtful plan lasts until the moment he places the first piece of fruit in his mouth. His lips close around the tines of the fork. His eyes close by their own accord. He feels his scapular feathers begin to rise, to fluff up, and he tamps the reaction back down.

 

Castiel knows the tastes of air. He knows it hot and cold, humid and thin. He knows an impending thunderstorm from a drizzle. Beyond this, he knows the taste of his own mouth and his own blood. Last night, he sipped something new and strange from a glass.

 

This is something new and _good_.

 

“First strawberry of the year, huh?” Prince Dean says somewhere beyond Castiel’s eyelids, and there’s a laugh in his voice.

 

Castiel chews thoroughly, swallows carefully, and opens his eyes. “Yes.”

 

“Kinda small, this early,” Prince Dean continues. “I’m surprised we could get so many in April.”

 

“I like them.”

 

“I could tell,” Prince Dean replies. The shape of his mouth matches what Joshua described as a “smirk,” a kind of smile that is more complicated than joy and potentially mocking.

 

Uncertain of how to respond, Castiel takes shelter in the very human ploy of putting something else in his mouth. This one is some kind of meat, cut small, and is a strange improvement over the fruit.

 

“How does it compare?” Prince Dean asks, and there is a horrible moment where Castiel attempts to remember words for tastes, for, for flavors, that’s the word, before he realizes the prince is gesturing more widely.

 

He is careful to swallow before he asks, “Compare, Sir Dean?”

 

“Sam wanted the food served university style for his birthday,” Prince Dean explains. “No formal courses, everyone filling their own plate. A lot of people think it’s just for the novelty, but he really misses that mage tower of yours. So, how does it compare?”

 

Armed with guesses, Castiel replies, “The arrangement of the tables fits the room. The style has been well adapted into a new setting. And the fare itself is certainly an improvement over what I’m accustomed to.”

 

“Very diplomatic,” Prince Dean says, another question clearly rising up behind these words.

 

Castiel preempts him, asking, “What style was used for your birthday celebration, Sir Dean?”

 

The prince’s smirk recedes. Something else takes its place, but Castiel has no hope of parsing it unaided. “I was next door over, actually.” When Castiel only looks at him blankly, Prince Dean clarifies. “Moondoor. Next door? Anyway. We were visiting at Queen Charlene’s invitation. She threw me a party as an apology for having to miss Sam’s. It’s negotiating season with the fae, so we’ll be lucky if she’s able to come round for Sam’s wedding next week. Gotta say, a party where Sam couldn’t see half of the guests? Hilarious.”

 

Reflecting upon the properties of a firstborn, Castiel says, “It is interesting to see where primogeniture still holds weight.”

 

“Still?” Prince Dean repeats. “Sam might be the only mage between us, but first mage still gets the throne. That’s how it works.”

 

“Primogeniture once applied regardless of magehood,” Castiel explains. It had when they’d been sealed away from this world. The change is a curious enough one to have been well-documented, but it remains just that: curious.

 

The oldest son of a king looks at Castiel then, silent and inscrutable. After what even Castiel can tell is too long a pause, Prince Dean says, “Sounds like a stupid idea.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, Moondoor. That was a good party. No complaints there. Sure, it’s a cold place in January, but where isn’t? Anyway, that was where Sam really locked into the idea of a masquerade. They go all the way out over there.” He gestures at Castiel’s wings, the backs of his fingertips brushing from sheer proximity. “You’d fit right in. Ever been?”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not often invited into the homes of royalty, Sir Dean.”

 

Prince Dean laughs. “I meant the country, but sure. I think you’d really enjoy doing this true Moondoor style: they pick a person, or a persona, and stick to that the whole party.” He shows his teeth and leans in close, shoulder bumping Castiel’s. “You could be the Seraph Castiel. That’s what Sam did, he picked Samuel Colt so he wouldn’t have to remember a different name.”

 

“That would be easier,” Castiel agrees in his most neutral of tones, his wings as blank as their position will allow. “Who did you choose to go as?”

 

Prince Dean’s mouth widens, his eyes full of life. “I didn’t. Charlie picked for me. You know the story of the Handmaiden Knight? That. So there were these contests all night for me to ‘regain my honor’ and in between, I had to stick close to Charlie because I was being her handmaiden.”

 

Frowning, Castiel puts at least one piece together. “You’re… referring to Queen Charlene?”

 

“Charlie,” Prince Dean confirms, nodding. He tells Castiel of the contests, feats of swordsmanship both real and absurd, trials of drink followed by dance. His gestures grow exuberant, his face perpetually about to glow. Those around them listen in with decreasing subtlety until Castiel and the prince are within a circle of observing humans, some sitting across from them, others standing. Once this audience begins to solidify, Prince Dean’s speech increases somewhat in formality, though only somewhat. He refers to Queen Charlene as Queen Charlene, and other previously relaxed characters of his story abruptly sprout titles.

 

Castiel listens and nods, and once he has emptied the distraction of his plate, he turns the conversation closer to his goal. “I heard there was an incident on your journey home.”

 

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Prince Dean tells him. “We took a combustion carriage with Dame Joanna operating. The quartermistress’ daughter with fire magic, not the archer. When a rugaru tried to attack us during a rest stop, it was one of the foolish assaults you’d expect from an unthinking creature.

 

“Dame Joanna reacted exactly as trained. She moved Sam back and incinerated the creature at the same time. With one hand, it was as if she were helping him down from a carriage, and with the other, she let off the biggest fireball we’ve ever seen from her. And this was at the beginning of our rest stop,” Prince Dean emphasizes. “She’d been funneling fire into the propelling mechanism over uneven terrain for a continuous hour. But the moment Sam was in danger, it was like she was starting fresh.”

 

“A credit to her training, and to Your Highness’ troops,” says a woman sitting across from them.

 

Castiel nods along with the rest of those gathered, but he wonders. He decides against drawing attention to his point of interest, but is nevertheless spared from needing to fill the silence himself. Simply put, there is no silence to fill. With that one break in his conversation with Prince Dean, their audience becomes instead a group of participants. The resulting dynamic keeps Prince Dean at the center and sends Castiel into the periphery, despite their being physically adjacent.

 

Being ignored suits Castiel’s purposes. He listens to Prince Dean attentively as the prince recounts instances of his knights’ prowess. It seems Prince Dean has at least one grand story for each soldier he or anyone else mentions.

 

These tales flow from one to the next with the prompting and commentary of those around them, but they all share several common threads. Some are expected. Some are curious, such as the way Prince Dean turns all questions about his own exploits into answers about his hunters’ contributions. While he never features as the primary hero of his own stories, any hunt involving his father the king in his younger days is described as nearly a one-man affair.

 

Deciding he’s listened his fill to the state of monster hunting in the country, Castiel shifts his leg beneath the table, pressing the side of his knee against that of the prince. The motion is out of view of those surrounding them, but it serves nicely to pull Prince Dean’s gaze and overt attention back to Castiel. With that attention, Castiel is afforded the next pause in the conversation without needing to fight for it. He says, “There’s a pattern across your stories, Sir Dean. Are attacks more common around the border?”

 

“Anything we can’t kill, we push back,” Prince Dean replies. “Which does mean more monsters getting crowded out to the fringes.”

 

“What can’t you kill?” Castiel asks. He knows the limitations of humans from long ago, but not all the ways these have changed, even with these stories.

 

“Mostly demons,” Prince Dean says, and this is precisely the answer Castiel expected. “Exorcising them from a body is enough to save an individual, provided there’s a healer on hand to reverse the damage. Demons ride their hosts rough for a reason, after all.”

 

“To make more demons,” Castiel replies, nodding.

 

Prince Dean tilts his head slightly, and his body leans away from Castiel for all of an instant before leaning back in. “You’re well-informed.”

 

“One cannot study angels without studying demons,” Castiel replies.

 

Around them, there are a few smiles. No. Smirks. Not many, but a few. Perhaps Castiel sounds needlessly superstitious, or merely unfashionable in his interests.

 

“Right,” Prince Dean says, nodding without his smile. This could mean anything from disappointment to respect. “Because Lucifer made the first archdemons.”

 

“He made all of the archdemons,” Castiel corrects. “Before he turned against his siblings, he created his army in secret, forging the first from powerful human mages. Alone among their kind, only the archdemons could make new demons without first possessing the human they intended to corrupt.”

 

“Or,” a woman across from them begins to say, but there arises an immediate interruption. Like iron filaments caught in a magnetic field, the humans gathered around the end of the table move themselves into a circle. Each turns, facing the source of this phenomenon, its identity made obvious by glimpses of gold. Castiel and Prince Dean sit outside this ring until the circle breaks, revealing its catalyst.

 

Moving untouched within a bubble of space is Prince Samuel. In either hand, he carries a large glass stein full of brown liquid. Below his mask, he carries a wide smile. With a polite warmth, he thanks the woman across from Prince Dean for giving up her seat, and he finishes speaking before she finishes moving. She doesn’t move very far, instead taking up a position behind his shoulder.

 

“Did I miss it?” Prince Samuel asks. He slides the second of the steins across the table to his brother. Around them, the circle of humans closes back in, incrementally tighter than before.

 

“We were telling hunting stories,” Prince Dean replies, perhaps a use of that Royal We which Castiel has vaguely heard of. Certainly, no one else had any hunting stories.

 

“Oh, good,” Prince Samuel says. “I’d hate to have missed a debate on angels.” His smile shifts as his gaze does, and Castiel has the impression he’s being viewed warmly. It’s a quick look before the prince twists and looks upward at the woman whose seat he’d taken. “You were about to ask about the rise of demons at the time of the vanishing of angels, correct?”

 

Even with the barrier of her fox mask, even with Castiel’s limited understanding, the woman’s surprise is clear on her face. “I was, Your Highness,” she replies, dropping into a bob of a curtsy, head bowed.

 

Prince Samuel looks back to Castiel and tells him, “Then you were going to explain that the rise of demons occurred over a four hundred year period prior to the angels disappearing, and that many of the demons vanished with them, particularly the archdemons.”

 

Mind racing, Castiel bows his head. “A five hundred year period, Your Highness,” he answers. Castiel hadn’t been a century old, at the beginning.

 

Rather than finding offense in the correction, Prince Samuel smiles wider. He points to his brother. “Then you were going to leave for a drink, but I brought it, and now you have to stay.”

 

“Why is there hunter’s brew on tap?” Prince Dean asks, looking down into his drink.

 

“Because Quartermistress Harvelle and I agree that our castle should offer every comfort one of her roadhouses might, and that my brother should be able to drink like a hunter wherever he is stationed,” Prince Samuel replies. His tone makes the meaning of his expression clear: this is pride.

 

Prince Dean makes a strange motion with his eyes – surely he doesn’t need to look at Castiel, the ceiling, and the woman on his other side in such rapid progression – before hefting the stein and holding it out. His brother matches the gesture, and they clink glass against glass before drinking, two horned heads thrown back in unison.

 

The first to lower his drink, Prince Sam directs his attention back to Castiel. Castiel does not want his attention, lest his attention bring about yet more visions. “Dean and I have disagreed on the existence of angels for a long time. I understand you’re an expert in the subject. Perhaps you could settle our debate for us. Castiel, isn’t it? Like the seraph who vanquished the Archdemon Azazel.”

 

“With respect, Your Highness, the Seraph Castiel imprisoned the Archdemon Alistair. The Archdemon Azazel–”

 

“Was vanquished by Samuel Colt, you’re right,” Prince Samuel interrupts, nodding. “I haven’t brushed up on the subject as recently as you, I’m afraid. Though by your name, it sounds as if you were born into your research.”

 

“That is accurate,” Castiel replies.

 

“It strikes me that my brother never mentioned your surname to me,” Prince Samuel says.

 

Having anticipated this question and discussed with Uriel the risks of claiming a human family, Castiel has his answer prepared.

 

“I have none,” he says.

 

Around the table, there is a wave of surprise, to the point of murmuring and whispers. Curiously, none of this surprise shows on Prince Samuel’s face. Castiel risks a look at Prince Dean and finds another unreadable expression there.

 

“I studied alongside several orphans at the university,” Prince Samuel tells him, tells all of them. Several of the previously whispering aristocrats abruptly fall silent. “Without exception, they were the most diligent students.”

 

“To keep the university’s charity, they would have to be,” comments a man in a bear mask.

 

“To have earned it in the first place,” Prince Samuel corrects, and he nods at Castiel over the rim of his stein. “Dean, you didn’t tell me you were recruiting new Men of Letters.” With this remark to his brother, his tone changes, lightens, and the tension in those gathered around them eases.

 

“Until the day we need to hunt angels, we don’t need a Man of Letters to tell us how to,” Prince Dean replies. He looks to Castiel and briefly closes one eye, just the one. “Now, if you know more about demons, we could see about setting up a trial period.”

 

Rather than give Castiel time to decide whether this is a sincere offer, Prince Samuel presses the conversation forward to his own ends. “So, despite all the evidence, Dean doesn’t think there’s any concrete proof angels existed.”

 

Very telling and equally disturbing, there is a lack of reaction from those around them. As if this is a perfectly normal opinion for an educated human to have.

 

Castiel feels his eyes narrow behind his own mask, the lining pulling against the skin of his face. He looks at Prince Dean and asks, “What do you consider proof?”

 

“Physical evidence,” Prince Dean answers without hesitation. “There’s a lot of lore on a lot of creatures, but without physical evidence, we just don’t know.”

 

“Which means Dean doesn’t accept stories, written or oral,” Prince Samuel adds.

 

“Not without something solid backing them,” Prince Dean says. “Belief without foundation, that’s how we get tulpas. It doesn’t help that for the last few centuries, tulpas are how we get angels.”

 

Castiel cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

 

“A tulpa is formed through belief,” Prince Dean says, evidently for the benefit of those around them. “If enough people believe something strongly enough, a tulpa forms sometimes. The only credible accounts of anyone seeing a living angel have all turned out to be tulpa sightings or real ghosts with fixations. It’s not that hard to get a tulpa when ‘everyone knows’ an angel lives in that particular spot. Get enough of everyone knowing, and you get the angel to go with it.”

 

Privately, Castiel wonders how many of these “tulpas” were, in fact, Uriel or another member of his spy network. Or perhaps the formation of the tulpas was instigated by too little stealth and subtlety on their scouts’ parts.

 

“I can understand people wanting to believe, don’t mistake me,” Prince Dean continues, now directly to Castiel, perhaps sensing Castiel’s desire for him to apologize. “There’s so much out there that’s awful. Things you’d swear were nightmares if you didn’t see them while awake. Sometimes, when reality turns that ugly, hope turns around and tries to find something beautiful.”

 

It is a very strange thing, to be looked at directly and still be told he doesn’t exist.

 

“You think angels are a mass delusion,” Castiel summarizes flatly.

 

“I think angels are hope,” Prince Dean says, looking him steadily in the eyes. “I think people look back at what used to be, and nostalgia tells us it was better. So we tell ourselves about a world before demons, before black smoke meant anything other than a fire, before… all of it. And it’s not enough just not to have the bad, we have to have something good, too. So we think of ourselves, but better. Stronger, faster, more beautiful.” His eyes rest on Castiel’s scapulars before they meander down the rest of his wings. “Immortal creatures striking down demons in our defense? Who wouldn’t dream of that?”

 

After far too long not knowing what to say, Castiel tells him, “That’s a very idealized view.”

 

And almost entirely inaccurate as well. Stronger and faster, certainly, but the exposed lower half of Prince Dean’s face disproves that claim of superior angelic beauty. More importantly, the war against Lucifer’s private army of demons had never been on humanity’s behalf. If anything, the battle to re-establish balance between the four archangels had been waged against humans as well, humanity perceived as little more than demonic incubators. No, humans have little cause to think of angels as hope.

 

Prince Dean surprises him with a laugh, and the spell of his seriousness breaks. “That’s not something I’m often accused of. All I’m saying is, we’re talking about an entire species. An entire species that supposedly lived for an extremely long time, and we don’t have physical evidence of this. We have proof of human cities dating that far back. Farther. But no angel cities.”

 

“We know those cities were built by humans, but we don’t know if they were solely inhabited by humans,” Prince Samuel counters. “Mosaics of the time depicted angels and humans together. _And_ , this would be predating the rise of demons, so they had no need to romanticize angels into being.”

 

“It’s only predating the rise of demons if you agree the _angel_ Lucifer made them,” Prince Dean retorts.

 

“We don’t have proof of demons dating that far back,” Prince Samuel says. “We have some partial mural paintings that _might_ be demons, but are probably ghosts. A black blur within a salt line is a common enough motif for either. There weren’t any of the demon-binding sigils you’d expect.”

 

“There weren’t any sigils on a _partial_ mural,” Prince Dean points out. “When we already know demons are huge on burning down libraries and always have been.” He shakes his head. “Back to the point, we still haven’t found any angel cities.”

 

“There’s also the possibility angels wouldn’t need cities, or live in them,” Prince Samuel says. “Having wings for travel would cut out so much infrastructure.”

 

“Pardon my mentioning, Your Highness,” a woman on Prince Dean’s other side interjects, “but I recall stories about angels living in the mountains.”

 

“The Kingdom of Heaven,” Castiel confirms, if only to see how much knowledge has been truly lost. It would be far easier to tell if he could be certain what recognition looked like on masked human faces. “It perched in the mountains to the south.”

 

“Conveniently high up, in mountains no one can climb,” Prince Dean says.

 

“A tactically sound location, Sir Dean,” Castiel replies.

 

Prince Dean smiles with his mouth. “That much, I’ll admit. _If it were real_ , it’d be a great location, provided you could fly and didn’t need to eat.”

 

“Castiel, do you know anything besides the location?” Prince Samuel asks. “Any records from the angels going down, if not humans going up?”

 

It’s a better opening than Castiel could have hoped. “Because of their long lifespans, angels were partial to keeping their significant records in stone. Even with their compact language, it consumed a great deal of space, but the lasting nature of these records was the primary concern. In their dealings with the outside world, they would have upheld this tradition in matters of importance.” He makes sure to watch the younger prince’s face for any flicker of reaction when he adds, “This would have resulted in the exchange of tablets, typically in the dark stone common to the mountains. We do have records of these existing.”

 

Prince Samuel’s head lifts incrementally. His lips neither tighten nor part, and he says nothing.

 

“You’d need a strong postal carrier for that,” Prince Dean jokes, and Prince Samuel’s face smoothly transitions into – probably – amusement as some of those around them laugh.

 

“So now angels can’t be real because their mail is too heavy?” Prince Samuel teases. Another, smaller round of laughter follows.

 

“Angels can’t be real because every ‘living’ one is a tulpa and every dead one is fake,” Prince Dean counters before finishing off his drink. He looks at Castiel while he licks his lips and must take Castiel’s confusion the wrong way. “Tell me you don’t believe in those hoaxes.”

 

“Which ones?” Castiel asks, concealing his ignorance while forcing the prince to clarify.

 

“The human skeletons with the wing bones wired on,” Prince Dean explains. “Except they’re not even wing bones, or if they are, they’re griffin wings.”

 

“Those are absurd,” Castiel agrees immediately. “You won’t find a winged angel skeleton for the same reason you’ll never find a skeleton from a chimera.”

 

It’s Prince Dean’s turn to tilt his head. “Nice theory, but all I’m hearing are convenient excuses.”

 

“Surely chimera have bones,” a woman in a mask like fish scales posits from where she stands at the end of the table. “Anything that stands must have bones.”

 

“Oh, they do,” Prince Dean allows. “Tough ones, too – right up until you kill them. Then what you have is a trio of animal corpses with matching wounds.”

 

The man in the bear mask laughs. “Castiel, are you saying angels separated into humans and eagles upon dying?” There is something in the way he says Castiel’s name that is untoward and strangely pointed. Derision at his lack of title here, perhaps.

 

“An angel is a creature of magic, not a magical fusion,” Castiel corrects, eyes narrowed. “In all creatures of magic, the magic burns away at the moment of death.” At that, there are nods around the table, particularly strong from Prince Dean. “As the seat of an angel’s power is the wings, no true remains of an angel would have skeletal wings attached. They would burn into the closest surface instead.”

 

Prince Dean nudges Castiel’s elbow with his own. “There are no angel skeletons because they look the same as humans? Still a convenient excuse.”

 

“The world exists regardless of any of our perspectives on it,” Castiel replies.

 

Sam salutes him with his glass. “Well said. Though I think that settles it: we’re never going to convince my brother angels existed unless we can show him a real one.”

 

In response, Castiel looks at his own wing where it rises over his shoulder for all to see. He looks at Prince Dean and back to Prince Samuel. “Perhaps not even then, Your Highness,” he replies. A fresh round of laughter proves Castiel’s fledgling grip on human humor is accurate.

 

After that, the conversation wanders into matters of irrelevance. It’s a burst dam of attention and competition for attention as those around them insinuate themselves to the conversational forefront. Clearly, Castiel was only permitted to speak as long as he did due to the Mage Prince’s interest. Just the Mage Prince; it becomes increasingly obvious that Prince Dean’s favor is not being so fervently wooed.

 

Too many people stand too close around him, and his discomfort isn’t simply due to the occasional stray hand touching his wings. Precious moments scrape away under useless chatter. What’s more, each wasted minute is another minute in which proximity could inspire Prince Samuel into a vision.

 

Beneath the table, Prince Dean’s knee presses against his. Castiel looks at him, and Prince Dean gazes back steadily. “You still owe me a dance, you know,” Prince Dean murmurs beneath the conversation around them. He’s quiet enough not to interrupt, firm enough to be readily overheard.

 

“I wasn’t aware,” Castiel replies truthfully, his head angled toward Prince Dean, his eyes on Prince Samuel. This could be a problem, but it would be a problem farther away from Prince Samuel. The younger prince is concentrating on the aristocrats chatting around him, even moderating the discussion, but no unnecessary risk is ever worth taking, not with the stakes so high.

 

“Consider yourself informed,” Prince Dean tells him. He takes Castiel by the elbow and stands. The moment he moves, his brother’s eyes snap to him.

 

“Dean,” Prince Samuel says, thoroughly interrupting the man in the bear mask with that single word.

 

“You know me, that’s as long as I can stay sitting down in one go,” Prince Dean says, ostensibly to his brother, in truth to the entire group. He steps back over the bench, using his hand on Castiel to hold himself steady. “I hope you don’t mind me stealing Cas here.”

 

“You don’t have to go,” Prince Samuel argues. His tone is polite and his body plays at being relaxed, but even Castiel can tell it’s an argument.

 

“Can’t dance sitting down,” Prince Dean counters with a shrug. He guides Castiel around the end of the bench, a piece of assistance that is unnervingly close to necessary. Rising without moving his wings at all is an unexpected blow to Castiel’s balance, but somehow one Prince Dean has anticipated. Perhaps because he assumes the wings are fake, dead weight.

 

A woman in a fox mask succeeds in drawing Prince Samuel back into the discussion regardless of the way the prince looks at his departing brother. Uncertain of what to say in parting, Castiel says nothing and allows Prince Dean to guide him away.

 

“I’m thinking the courtyard,” Prince Dean tells him. He adjusts Castiel, tucking Castiel’s hand into the crook of his own elbow. This done, he evidently expects Castiel to hold on for himself, as if in preparation for Castiel to get lost. It’s strange, and must be for show. They don’t need to weave through the throng of guests, even though Prince Dean’s bubble of space is slimmer than his brother’s. Slower, less responsive.

 

“I don’t know how to dance, Sir Dean,” Castiel admits before they can go far.

 

Prince Dean almost pauses in his steps; the moment of hesitation pulls against Castiel’s palm. “Oh. I thought – right. Of course. They wouldn’t teach dancing at mage school, huh?”

 

“You thought what?” Castiel asks.

 

“That you disliked dancing,” Prince Dean replies, a little too quickly. When Castiel waits for a better answer, Prince Dean adds, “Or that you were being coy.”

 

“I prefer to be direct, wherever possible,” Castiel replies. “Misdirection has as many discomforts as it has uses.”

 

“You came to a masquerade ball not knowing how to dance,” Prince Dean muses.

 

“I have the masquerade portion well in hand,” Castiel says, and Prince Dean laughs.

 

“You really do.” Not for the first time, Prince Dean openly admires Castiel’s wings. Not for the first time, Castiel fights the urge to preen. It’s a very natural reaction to such bold flattery, but knowing this doesn’t help. Neither does the knowledge that Prince Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how much interest he’s displaying. Fascination with a real body part speaks of lust; admiration of a costume does not.

 

Castiel stays quiet too long. He must, for Prince Dean asks him, “You all right?”

 

“I’m well, thank you.”

 

He must not appear well enough, because Prince Dean responds to this by guiding him over to the side of the hall to stand between two suits of armor, one metal with a matching shield, the other leather with a wooden shield.

 

“You like direct,” Prince Dean says.

 

Castiel nods.

 

“I didn’t mean to mock you.”

 

Castiel hadn’t realized the prince had. He hesitates to admit this, and that hesitation is clearly taken for something more vulnerable.

 

“I nickname people,” Prince Dean explains. “Calling you Castiel Cinderwings, it was just me nicknaming. I wasn’t mocking you for not having a family name.”

 

“No, you were mocking me for my interest in angels,” Castiel agrees.

 

This seems to distress the prince. “You’re proud of these.” Prince Dean reaches out, hand rising high over Castiel’s shoulder, and lays a light palm on the wrist of Castiel’s left wing, just above the alula. His hand is as warm on Castiel’s wing as it was at his elbow. “That’s all I meant.”

 

“Then I thank you,” Castiel says. He leans back slightly, just enough for Prince Dean to understand the unspoken request and release him.

 

“When you didn’t offer a surname yesterday, I thought, maybe you were… But I didn’t think I was being rude until I saw the rest of them at it.”

 

Castiel mentally reviews the interactions at the table. “I didn’t care for the way that man used my name.”

 

Prince Dean nods. “That. Look, Cas – I’m gonna call you Cas instead – if you want a surname, I can do that. I can bestow honorifics, the kind that become names. It’s why I nickname people, half the time. If you wanted to be Castiel Cinderwings, or anything else, I can make that happen.”

 

“Your offer is kind but unnecessary, Sir Dean,” Castiel assures him.

 

“Doesn’t have to be necessary for you to want it. Castiel Ravenfeather? Angelseeker? Seraphnamed? Castiel Bookburied.”

 

From what Joshua told him, Castiel knows what his response to jesting ought to be. Also from Joshua’s counseling, he begins small. Consciously, carefully, he pulls one corner of his mouth back toward his ear. He repeats the motion on the other side, and Prince Dean shows his teeth in response.

 

“No, thank you,” Castiel says gently.

 

“Well,” Prince Dean says. “You know. If you change your mind, let me know.”

 

Castiel nods. “Of course.” The motion growing difficult, he allows his facial smile to drop.

 

Prince Dean leans in closer, his grin disappearing rapidly, if more smoothly than Castiel could ever attempt. “Then what’s wrong?”

 

Castiel must have done something wrong with his face. He’d begun the smile correctly, so he must have ended it poorly. Fortunately, there is indeed a topic he’d like to address. He starts with the preliminaries. “I don’t wish to be rude, Sir Dean.”

 

“I like rude,” Prince Dean tells him, which does explain a great deal.

 

“Was that a typical interaction with His Royal Highness your brother?” Castiel asks.

 

Prince Dean looks past him, back toward the high doors to the Great Hall. He inhales deeply and exhales longer than usual. “Pretty much.” He looks back to Castiel with another sort of smile, this one more static. “It’s a good skill for a king-to-be, taking over just by walking into the room.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “When he arrived, he knew what we were discussing.”

 

“Oh,” Prince Dean says. “That.” His smile moves more and the corners of his eyes change subtly behind his mask. “Yeah, that’s normal. Takes a little getting used to.”

 

“Does he always know?” Castiel asks.

 

“He doesn’t, not that anyone believes it,” Prince Dean answers. “It’s the same problem we have with Mom’s powers, except worse.”

 

Castiel tilts his head, restraining the angle to polite curiosity.

 

“Some people still think she controls the weather instead of predicting it, for a start,” Prince Dean says. “Advance warning for a drought can be taken as the threat of a drought, which never goes over well. That’s gotten a lot better in recent years, but it still pops up.”

 

“Do people think His Royal Highness means to threaten them with his visions?” Castiel asks.

 

“Nah, that’s him hitting against Mom’s second problem. See, when Mom’s wrong about the weather, it means there’s a demonic omen interfering with the regular weather. Which means everyone knows the queen is either always right or spotting a demon. They think she’s infallible, but they don’t take human limitations into account.”

 

It would be too jarring to change direction and pursue that mention of demons. Taking this into consideration, Castiel presses ahead. “I was under the impression Her Majesty the queen had an immense range. It is true that she can identify demonic activity as far away as Moondoor, is it not?”

 

“Yeah, while she was pregnant with Sam,” Prince Dean replies, piling further evidence into one of Castiel’s theories. “Don’t know if you’ve heard the saying, but if you want things done, you get a mage. If you want bigger things done, you get a bigger mage.” Here, he mimes a pronounced belly, the motion almost like the final flourish of an elaborate bow.

 

“Was her range that immense before you were born?” Castiel asks.

 

Prince Dean shakes his head. “It’s cumulative, isn’t it? If she’d had a third kid, I’m betting her range would have touched the sea.”

 

From his increased research on the royal family, he knows the queen’s second pregnancy was a difficult one. What that entails, he’s uncertain, but it was certainly enough to cap the royal family at a single mageborn child, a single heir.

 

“Anyway, her range expanded for each of us, but it never stayed at that full expansion,” Dean concludes. “Same as anyone, royal or not. That’s just biology. But the people want to believe she can still do it, so they fault her when she can’t.”

 

Castiel says, “Are you telling me the problem with His Royal Highness’ talent, is that he’s viewed as omniscient?”

 

“Pretty much,” Prince Dean replies. “A future king who can see every problem coming? It sounds amazing, and people want to believe in good things.” He laughs softly and it sounds incorrect. “You’d think me talking about my brother’s limits would be a security risk, but it’s actually a public opinion we need to change.”

 

“Because otherwise he’s blamed for every mishap,” Castiel reasons.

 

“Every single one,” Prince Dean agrees. “And if you don’t think he takes that to heart, then I didn’t properly introduce you.”

 

“If you’re trying to reduce that image, why does he still publicly insert himself into conversations in that manner? He sounded as if he knew what every person in this party would be speaking of.” This is a slight exaggeration, but Prince Dean is a protector. If Castiel demonstrates fears, Prince Dean may attempt to assuage them.

 

Curiously, Prince Dean laughs again. He turns away slightly and says, “Yeah… About that.” He looks back to Castiel, smiling. “He’s got a nose for trouble. Especially near me. That’s his way of breaking up fights. Preemptively.”

 

Castiel narrows his eyes at the implication.

 

Prince Dean laughs louder. He claps Castiel on the shoulder. “I told you, I like rude.”

 

“Are you telling me that at any sign of confrontation, I can expect your brother to take notice?” Castiel asks.

 

“Are you planning on confrontation?”

 

Castiel checks the state of the prince’s smile before answering. “Debates can grow heated.”

 

Having been trailing away, the prince’s hand squeezes tight, now at the corner between Castiel’s shoulder and upper arm. Prince Dean leans closer. “I think I’d like to see that.”

 

“And your brother would interrupt?”

 

Prince Dean tilts his head from side to side, presumably a motion of consideration. “Not necessarily.”

 

“But if I refrained from causing a scene?”

 

“I don’t think he’d jump in, then,” Prince Dean assures him. “So, you know. You can relax. If that’s something you do.”

 

“It isn’t,” Castiel replies, and Prince Dean’s face takes the shape it makes before laughter. Instead of laughing, however, he softens. Castiel isn’t sure why.

 

Palm still on Castiel’s shoulder, Prince Dean lifts his fingers, fingertips brushing against the undersides of Castiel’s folded wing. His eyes remain on Castiel’s, as if Castiel might not notice the touch if he can’t see it. The prince smiles with only his lips. “I could help you with that.”

 

Although his logical mind knows it won’t prevent Prince Samuel from having visions, Castiel keeps his voice low. The quiet tone turns his words rough and deep. “Would it be too bold, to request your help for something else?”

 

In response, Prince Dean’s hand rides down Castiel’s arm, a downward slide of warmth. For the second time this night, Prince Dean takes hold of Castiel’s fingers and lifts both their hands before his face. For the first time, this night or any night, he presses his lips against Castiel’s knuckles. Like the touch of his hand, the touch of his mouth is warm and soft. It’s much drier than the frequent licking of his lips would imply.

 

“I like bold, too,” Prince Dean says.

 

“Then I will be bold,” Castiel replies.

 

Gently, he frees his hand but does not retract it. Instead, he returns it to the crook of the prince’s elbow. “If you would indulge me,” Castiel says, “I would very much appreciate a tour.”

 

Prince Dean smiles.

  
  


The tour is fruitless. There are areas they don’t approach, and there is nothing useful on display. If mentioning the tablet earlier sparked any recognition in Prince Dean, the human refuses to show it. Instead, Prince Dean speaks of human history and human battles. He calls upon knowledge from deep within his family line, and while this is very informative, it is not very useful.

 

Fortunately, Prince Dean seems content with a quiet audience. When presented with information potentially relevant to his mission – which is infrequent – Castiel directs his gaze where indicated. When presented with irrelevant information, Castiel resumes his study of human mannerisms.

 

He watches the way Prince Dean’s hands move, the gestures varying greatly by subject matter. He inspects Prince Dean’s stance when others crowd in or weigh in, and he inspects it when they are as close to alone as the party will allow. He watches Prince Dean’s eyes and the tilt of his head. He wonders at the increasing frequency with which he licks his lips.

 

When the licking becomes almost incessant and Prince Dean’s voice grows rough, Castiel realizes what’s wrong. In a moment of social grace worth taking pride in, he releases Prince Dean’s arm to snag a pair of fluted glasses off a passing servant with a tray. He offers one to Prince Dean and receives another mouth smile in exchange. Castiel even remembers to hold out his own glass as well, slightly tilted, for Prince Dean to tap his glass against.

 

Prince Dean does so. He sips quietly, nevertheless draining half the glass in a few moments. This done, he transfers the glass to his other hand, opposite from Castiel. He lowers his closer arm, elbow slightly extended. “Cas,” he murmurs, the horns of his mask tilting overhead, “you’re letting my arm get cold.”

 

This is very likely a joke. Regardless, Castiel returns his hand to its previous position. “My apologies.”

 

The night grows later. Even knowing that leaving the castle half an hour before midnight will see him back to the portal, he doesn’t have enough time. He has more information, a great deal of it, but nothing to bring him closer to his goal.

 

“Sir Dean, is there a library?” Castiel asks as the circuit of the ground floor draws to a close.

 

Downstairs, he knows there are the inner workings of the castle: kitchens and cellars, the armory and a dungeon. There are also vaults, a holdover from when the Royal Treasury could fit inside the castle itself, prior to the founding of the Royal Bank. If the tablet were in the vault, the royal family would have to know what it was, and everything he’s observed about Prince Dean indicates otherwise. Therefore, the library.

 

“I was waiting for the ulterior motive,” Prince Dean tells him.

 

Castiel, to his credit, doesn’t waver. As long as Prince Dean is still smiling, Castiel has not been found out. “You did say you wished to help me relax.”

 

“That’s upstairs a different way,” Prince Dean replies.

 

He guides Castiel to a door flanked by two guards. Around the door handle is a golden rope, the length tied below the thumb latch, preventing the use of both latch and door. This arrangement has been a common sight this evening, clearly marking the limits of the masquerade. Without so much as Prince Dean gesturing, the guard closest to the handle unties the rope. His partner opposite opens the door for them, swinging the wood inward. Inside, an unwavering magelight illuminates the base of a narrow stone stairway, twisting upward to the right.

 

“We’re going up this way tonight,” Prince Dean tells him.

 

“Where are we going?” Castiel asks.

 

“Trust me,” Prince Dean bids him. He gestures to the cramped space, indicating that Castiel is to climb first. “If you don’t like it once we’re up there, I’ll show you the library instead.”

 

This human cannot harm him, Castiel reminds himself. It’s strange, unnerving, to need this reminder. Prince Dean doesn’t _believe_ in angels, as much of an oversight as it is an insult. He has no warding symbols. He knows no banishment sigil. He carries no angel blade. Clearly, constantly carrying his wings in an anxious position is making Castiel needlessly afraid.

 

The only risk is being discovered, and the greatest threat is attracting Prince Samuel’s visions.

 

Castiel swallows his misgivings and steps into the stairwell. His bound wings impede his balance on the stairs, even as they remain neatly contained within the narrow stone confines. Behind him, he hears Prince Dean’s footsteps and the closing of the door. The light shifts as Prince Dean lifts a portable magelight from its holder.

 

Though Castiel’s eyes are as well-suited to darkness as they are to light, he has to wonder what a human would see. Would a human only be able to see one step ahead of themselves? Would the shadows of his own legs block his view of where next to put his feet? Should he stumble? He keeps his hands on both walls as a compromise, and his balance needs the help too much for comfort.

 

They climb.

 

They keep climbing.

 

This is not the stairway to a higher floor. This is not an oddly placed servants’ entrance to an attic. This is a tower, and Castiel still doesn’t see what Prince Dean is planning. What he’s planned well in advance, if the motions of those guards are any indicators.

 

They climb even higher, a distance that takes feet an eon and wings a moment. The stone steps curve underfoot, worn with age, repetition, and human weariness.

 

At last, the stairs stop. Castiel stops with them.

 

There is a small landing. There is a closed door. There is an empty magelight bracket.

 

“It’s unlocked,” Prince Dean tells him. His arm brushes against the edge of Castiel’s wing, the side of Castiel’s arm, as he sets the magelight into place. His breath is hot against Castiel’s feathers.

 

Castiel opens the door, and there is the sky.

 

It’s there. In front of him. Overhead. Around him.

 

The sky.

 

Castiel walks into it, and there is stone under his feet. There is glass before him. There are vague impressions of metal: the shape of a tube, a glimpse of a stool.

 

He walks to the edge, to what should be the edge. A parapet rises to his waist. Set into that parapet is a glass dome, a half-sphere segmented by sheets of glass and lines of metal.

 

There are the stars and the moon and the sky holding them all. There is no wind, not within this glass bubble, and that still, unmoving air is all that saves him. Unnerves him. This sky is real and he still cannot feel it. Every fiber of his being calls to leap through the glass, to soar, to plummet and swoop away from the ground at the last possible moment.

 

He needs to fly.

 

Somehow, he remains standing.

 

The light dims. A latch catches. One footfall follows another.

 

“I guess you like it,” Prince Dean says, his voice the softness that comes above a whisper.

 

Unable to speak, Castiel nods.

 

With the deliberate footsteps of a hunter, Prince Dean moves to stand beside him. They look into the sky. They look across the courtyard at the other towers, a clock tower and spires for living within. They look across the barracks and the training grounds. The gardens, faint with starlight. The outer border of the palatial complex, and the capital city beyond. He sees so much. Not from the right angle, not yet, but from less of the wrong one.

 

A hand touches the small of his back. A faint touch to the back flap of his shirt, the cloth covering the base of his wings at his shoulder blades. Reflexively, Castiel turns, and Prince Dean’s hand drags across his feathers. Rather, Castiel drags his wing across Prince Dean’s hand. His breath catches.

 

“Sorry,” Prince Dean tells him softly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. Words don’t come, won’t come.

 

Prince Dean doesn’t drop his hand, not immediately. Both the touch and subsequent absence of it stretch, infinite.

 

“Mom used to bring me up here a lot,” Prince Dean says, still in those low tones, as if Castiel is some wild, skittish animal. “Before Sam was born, when it was just her and me. Too hard to herd two kids up those stairs, I guess. But we’d come up here and she’d tell me about how weather works. And when I got bored, she’d, uh.” He looks out the window, out the walls of windows. “She’d tell me about angels, actually. She’d be up here, taking notes in every direction, a full month of forecasts at a time, but she’d stop to make up these little stories.”

 

Standing shock still, Castiel flounders his way back to his mission. “Does… Does she still come up here? To check for weather and omens.”

 

“She doesn’t actually need to be up here to predict anything,” Prince Dean replies. “So she doesn’t, anymore. Too many stairs.”

 

“Have there been many, of late?”

 

“Stairs?”

 

“Omens.”

 

Prince Dean looks at him in the moonlight, and his mask turns his face strange. The silver of the horns glitters like two comets fixed in space. “You worried about something, Cas?”

 

“If something were to happen, you would be sent after it.”

 

His lips shift. “I’m staying put here until Sam’s wedding next week.”

 

“Then you’d be preoccupied instead.”

 

“No omens, Cas,” Prince Dean promises. Then: “Are you staying that long?”

 

“How long?”

 

“Until Sam’s wedding. Chuck’s invite is to both.”

 

“Oh.” Castiel shakes his head. “I only have leave for the masquerade.” Only these five nights provide an excuse for his wings, but to have the luxury of so much time…

 

The sound is strange through the glass as the clock tower across from them tolls eleven. Half an hour before he must finish taking his leave. Half an hour more to press forward.

 

“They really can’t spare you any longer?” Prince Dean asks, unwittingly accurate in his questioning.

 

“Not with the travel time involved,” Castiel replies, honest in a different way. He seems to be doing a great deal of that.

 

“So just three more nights, huh.” Body still facing toward the night sky, Prince Dean keeps his eyes on Castiel.

 

Castiel nods. “I’d like to make the most of that time.”

 

Prince Dean nods back. Slowly. Lingering in the motion the same way his eyes linger on Castiel’s face. “Yeah. Me too.”

 

“Are you certain there’s nothing to call you away?” Castiel asks a second time.

 

Prince Dean shifts to face him fully. In some indecipherable answer, he lifts both hands. Again, he moves too slowly, so needlessly gentle. Are humans truly so fragile? Or does Prince Dean expect to be so much stronger than other humans?

 

These are the questions Castiel wonders as one hand brushes the edge of his mask, the side of his face. The other hand reaches farther back, carefully running down through Castiel’s hair until the fastening band of the mask is found. The band comes up and over. Standing still, uncertain but calm, Castiel permits Prince Dean to unmask him.

 

After an almost imperceptible pause of holding it between their faces, Prince Dean lowers the mask.

 

Prince Dean stops breathing.

 

Castiel gazes back levelly. Waiting.

 

Before Castiel can decide whether he is meant to repeat this act upon the prince, Prince Dean unmasks himself as well. For the first time, Castiel can see the strength of his brow and the true slope of his nose. The shadows of the night sky suit his eyes better than the shadows of his mask. To see the plushness of his mouth was lovely, but to have the whole of his face to study is abruptly too much.

 

Prince Dean turns away, hooking both masks on a nearby telescope. Castiel had barely noticed the equipment against the temptation of the sky. The horns clang against the telescope like poorly cast bells. Before the sound has an instant to fade, Prince Dean returns.

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Castiel reminds him, struggling to return to a steady wind. Something is happening here, something Castiel didn’t intend and can’t seem to stop. Something is about to descend upon him, and the only thing Castiel can do is proceed forward.

 

“Nothing’s gonna call me away, Cas,” Prince Dean tells him. “And even after Sam’s wedding, when I’m back out there, I’m not defenseless. I’ve been training since I was a child, and I’ve been hunting for over a decade. I can exorcise demons with the best of them, and I’m constantly warded against possession. It’s fine. I’m fine. All right?”

 

Questions. He has to keep asking questions. The tablet, demon activity, the Mage Prince’s visions: ask the questions. He seizes the nearest one. “You’re constantly warded? Even outside the castle?”

 

“Here,” Prince Dean says, and he takes Castiel’s hand. He moves Castiel’s hand, not to his elbow or to his lips, but to his chest. He guides Castiel to trace a circle and a shape within, their fingertips sliding together over thick, lush fabric. “It’s in my skin. Here.”

 

And he presses Castiel’s palm over the covered tattoo, over his heart. He presses his own palm to the back of Castiel’s hand. Prince Dean’s heart is pounding. Harder and harder, Prince Dean’s heart beats against Castiel’s palm as if knocking upon a door.

 

Castiel looks at their joined hands. He looks at Prince Dean’s unmasked face. He looks at their every interaction and the conclusion looms, inescapable.

 

“You’re flirting with me,” Castiel realizes.

 

Prince Dean stares back. His heart races faster beneath Castiel’s palm before he releases Castiel entirely and pulls away.

 

“I’m flirting with you?” Prince Dean echoes. “I’m, _I’m_ flirting with _you_? You–”

 

“I mean,” Castiel interrupts. Interrupts a prince. “I mean.” What does he mean? “Are you?”

 

Prince Dean takes another step back. Then he rushes back in. “You are not this oblivious,” he snaps, sticking a finger in front of Castiel’s nose. “No one is this oblivious.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Of course I’m fucking serious. Don’t you dare tell me you somehow just _didn’t notice–_ ”

 

“Are you serious about the flirting?” Castiel repeats, his voice as calm and level as he feels the situation allows. It’s the first piece of information he needs.

 

“Do I look like I was joking?” Prince Dean demands, which is close enough to an answer to cement Castiel’s improvised ad hoc strategy.

 

“Your Highness, I have no surname,” Castiel tells him, committing. “I have no title and no parents. I am an expert in a subject you disdain.”

 

The protector inside Prince Dean stops him short. “You really thought I was joking.”

 

“It seemed the more likely option,” Castiel replies. He holds the prince’s gaze steadily in the moonlight. “Worse pranks have been played upon orphans.”

 

“That’s…” Prince Dean rubs a hand across his face. He takes a deep breath. He points at Castiel again, though with less force than before. “I wouldn’t do that.”

 

“In my defense,” Castiel says, “I’ve never met you before.”

 

Prince Dean paces away. He drags a stool away from a telescope, its metal feet grating against the stone floor. He sits, stands, and sits again. “You were flirting back.”

 

Apparently. “Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because,” Castiel replies, carefully picking words he’s heard out of Prince Dean’s own mouth, “people want to believe in good things.”

 

Prince Dean looks at him long and hard before rubbing at his face again. He makes a noise that is definitely not a positive one. “This is not how this was supposed to go.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. His flight feathers brush against the backs of his thighs, but he forces them still and holds back the curves of apology.

 

Prince Dean shakes his head emphatically. “You don’t apologize. The person who taught you to expect this bullshit, you point them out and _they_ apologize.”

 

“Is that really how it works?” Castiel asks.

 

“It is when I’m involved,” Prince Dean swears. “Look, I know. I get it. This?” He gestures between them. “This is unbalanced.”

 

“Is it sincere?”

 

Prince Dean looks up at him. “On my end, yeah.”

 

Castiel approaches. Prince Dean hadn’t retreated far, not in a room fifteen feet in diameter. In only a few feet, with only a few moments for thought, he stands before the prince and he offers his hand. “I am not adept at human interaction,” Castiel confesses, because he needs to sound honest.

 

His eyes on Castiel’s hand, Prince Dean neglects to take it. He looks back up to Castiel’s face. Castiel doesn’t risk making a facial expression. Whatever Prince Dean is searching for, he will have to find it in Castiel’s eyes or not at all.

 

At last, Prince Dean takes his hand. His palm is sweaty and rough with sword callouses. The texture is relentlessly, undeniably human, the alienness of skin that can be altered by mere habits.

 

“I’d like to continue as we were,” Castiel tells him quietly, because a low volume can indicate uncertainty. The more vulnerability he can project, the more Prince Dean will seek to protect him. Castiel is almost certain of this. “Unless you’ve reconsidered. It wasn’t my intention to insult you with doubts, merely to doubt my own fortune.”

 

“Look, I get it,” Prince Dean repeats. “People are assholes. But it’s a hell of a thing to ask when a guy’s about to kiss you.”

 

Oh.

 

“Sir Dean, I cannot emphasize enough how bad I am at human interaction,” Castiel swears to him.

 

Prince Dean laughs. It sounds sincere and his teeth flash in the moonlight. His thumb rubs against the back of Castiel’s hand. “Take you outside of an academic debate and you’re lost?”

 

“That isn’t inaccurate.”

 

His face at once immensely expressive and infuriatingly unreadable, Prince Dean gazes up at Castiel. A long, silent moment passes.

 

“You know,” Prince Dean says, his tone jarringly casual, “a lot of people are afraid of getting anti-possession tattoos. Or any protective tattoos, really.”

 

The abrupt turn sends Castiel’s head spinning. He needs to extract himself, needs to go down the long stairway and leave, but he needs to secure the prince’s favor first. Needs to secure it again. It occurs to him that if he errs badly enough, he could be banned the subsequent nights. He cannot leave now. “Why is that?” he asks, as this seems to be expected of him.

 

“Because of blood sigils,” Prince Dean answers. “What powers a blood sigil?”

 

“The energy in the blood used.”

 

“And what powers a blood sigil cut into a living thing?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“All of the blood within that living thing, killing it.”

 

“That’s pretty common knowledge, right?”

 

Castiel nods, confused at so many of Prince Dean’s actions. “I’ve always thought so.”

 

“So if everyone knows a blood sigil cut into you can kill you when activated, how do you think your regular person responds to the idea of getting a sigil tattooed onto them?”

 

“But a tattoo is made of ink.”

 

“But getting one, you bleed,” Prince Dean explains.

 

“I see,” Castiel says as understanding incrementally dawns.

 

“Yeah. People know just enough to screw themselves over.”

 

“Is this a metaphor?” Castiel asks. “Or are you merely trying to distract me?”

 

“Distract,” Prince Dean says. He holds Castiel’s hand with both of his own now. “What can I say, man, you’re really tense.”

 

Castiel is standing in a tower he cannot fly from. His time to return to the portal is dwindling, and his time to uncover and retrieve the tablet is already two-fifths exhausted with no real leads. He has insinuated himself into a dynamic he has no idea how to navigate and cannot risk severing. Not without losing access to much of the castle or, perhaps worse, drawing the visions of the other prince.

 

“I need some time to think,” he replies. “Is that acceptable?”

 

“Is that…? Yes.” Prince Dean rises. It puts their faces close, but Castiel decides against stepping back. Even the faint wind of Prince Dean’s breath is a comfort in the unrelenting stillness of this room. “Of course that’s acceptable.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, squeezing Prince Dean’s hand.

 

Prince Dean turns his face away, but he doesn’t let go. After two breaths, he looks back to Castiel without turning his head. “I like you. You get that, right?”

 

“I do now.” When Prince Dean seems to expect more, Castiel adds, “I haven’t felt this overwhelmed in a very long time.”

 

“It’s possible to be overwhelmed in a good way,” Prince Dean reminds him.

 

“I’m not good at this,” Castiel repeats. He thinks to pull his hand away but doesn’t know if that will make it worse. “Is it because I stared too much? I know I stare too much.”

 

“You stare just right,” Prince Dean tells him. “I like the way you look at me.”

 

“I find you very confusing,” Castiel confesses.

 

His thumb still stroking Castiel’s hand, Prince Dean says, in that same casual tone as before, “Y’know, some of the latest legislation for ghost prevention is in favor of wig oversight. How’s that for confusing?”

 

“That doesn’t seem strange. I’d imagine that even if the hair was taken from the living, the original owner would have to be documented. Otherwise, dispelling a harmful spirit after that person’s death would require burning any number of wigs their hair might be in.”

 

“That’s… Yeah, that’s exactly it. You’re not easily distracted, are you?”

 

“I’m not,” Castiel agrees.

 

“You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met,” Prince Dean says. “I mean that.”

 

“Perhaps in some ways,” Castiel allows, trapped as he is by his own ignorance.

 

“Smart enough to figure me out,” Prince Dean continues. “That is, if you want to.”

 

“I want to,” Castiel says. It would solve half of this problem.

 

Prince Dean’s shoulders lower with an exhale. “Good.” He keeps brushing their fingers together. He shifts closer. He inspects Castiel’s face, oblivious to all the emotions flattened into his tense wings. “Cas?”

 

“I still need to think.” He needs to leave.

 

“Right,” Prince Dean says. “Right.” He steps back, their arms stretching between them. He relinquishes Castiel’s hand and retrieves his mask. “I’ll leave you to it.”

 

“I’d rather not be alone up here,” Castiel says.

 

“I can stargaze while you think,” Prince Dean offers. “Or send someone else up. That was Sir Victor by the door. If you ever want to talk tracking spells with someone, he’s your man.” It’s almost alarming, how well Prince Dean realizes Castiel can be bribed with information.

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I’ll go down.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He nods. “I am. And I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

 

Prince Dean passes him back his mask.

 

“Thank you,” Castiel tells him. He fastens it to his face and guides the band back beneath his hair. All the while, Prince Dean watches him.

 

There’s more he could say. There’s more he could ask.

 

There’s simply no time.

 

“Good night, Sir Dean.”

 

“Good night, Cas.”

 

He slips through the door to the stairway and closes it behind himself. Uncertain of the protocol, he takes the single magelight from its bracket and descends the stairs as if constrained by human concerns for light. Although the stone stairs strike at his flight feathers with every step, the trip down is far quicker than the journey up.

 

At the bottom, he opens the door. Immediately, to the male guard standing outside, he asks, “Sir Victor? Would you kindly return this to the Knight Prince, please?” He hands over the stick of the magelight.

 

Some sort of analysis occurs behind the knight’s brown eyes, but for all Sir Victor’s face remains unmasked in the manner of all the guards here, he is no easier to read. His skin is nearly the same deep brown that Uriel’s has faded to in the centuries without sunlight, and though almost familiar hue catches the part of Castiel’s mind that is continually looking for wing colors, it tells him nothing, save that he wishes his brother were here. The depths of Castiel’s ignorance make themselves keenly felt.

 

“Does His Highness wish for me to join him?” Sir Victor asks in a level voice.

 

“He didn’t say,” Castiel replies. “But he did insinuate you were a man worth speaking to.”

 

Sir Victor takes the magelight. “I’ll go up.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel replies. He nods to the other guard and takes his leave.

 

The way out of the castle stretches. The path through the hedge maze winds. Castiel arrives before the portal the very moment it opens and he knows, deeper than the ache of his tense, unmoving wings, that his task is too much for him.

 

He steadies himself for the passage through and presses on nonetheless.


	4. Third Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter before a monster of a chapter next week. Also, next week's update will be on Tuesday instead of Monday, ditto the week after that.

In the morning, there is training, because there is always training. His head pounds from drink and his legs ache from dancing. Having observed the whole mess, Victor takes no pity on him as they spar, an empty-handed warm up followed by training blades.

 

Dean has never taken rejection well.

 

But Cas had left. Beelined right out of the castle, and Dean is… Dean doesn’t know how he is. Way more upset than he should be. Distracted.

 

Fortunately for their training, Victor doesn’t give a shit about Dean’s love life. Bobby cares even less, and Rufus would probably be offended at the idea he was expected to notice. Jo, being a nosy asshole on duty at the front door, is much less helpful.

 

“I’m still trying to figure out how an orphan shoots down a prince,” Jo tells him over their water break.

 

“You should be figuring out your fireballs instead,” Bobby calls over before Dean can get into it with her.

 

“Still not pregnant!” she shouts back. “Don’t know what else to tell you.” Jo rolls her shoulders before stretching out her arms. “By this point, I’m pretty sure it was a fluke,” she mutters to Dean. With pregnancy ruled out and no other conditions present to boost Jo’s powers, Dean's starting to think she’s right. Maybe the kick of fear inherent in protecting the crown prince is all it was. 

 

“Pretty sure he’s going to run you into the ground until you do it again,” Dean replies anyway.

 

“Count on it!” Bobby calls. “All right, enough standing around.”

 

Later, jogging through their cool down and helping each other out of practice armor, there’s a bit more talk, and not merely about Jo’s freak fireball and subsequent presumed pregnancy scare. With Sam’s party important enough to use Dean’s knights as palace guards, everyone is short on free time but packed full of stories of aristocratic idiocy. Reactions to these stories vary.

 

Dean’s personal division of the Royal Knights pulls from all sources, taking hunters of worth from wherever they might be found. Bobby was discovered by Dean’s father back in his prince years. Then a farrier with a possessed wife, Bobby has since grown into an expert on the demonic and the many alternative uses of iron from his shop. From a family of horse breeders, Rufus came with Bobby, the pair already well synced from the trials of shoeing ornery animals together. A healer specializing in both breath and touch styles, Cleric Jim is another holdover from his father’s days.

 

Victor was a lawman. Jo was the daughter of a knight and a roadhouse innkeeper, now the daughter of the Quartermistress of all the roadhouses. Her mother runs the entire network these days, providing for the whole order of knights in which she once found, and lost, a husband. Regardless of the kingdom’s obvious need for fire mages, Ellen still isn’t pleased with Jo’s decision.

 

And then there’s Ash. It took Dean the better part of three years to realize Ash isn’t actually a mage. While Victor will pull out the obvious trappings of a non-mage while activating his tracking spells, Ash has a way of free-styling sigils and runes in a way that might itself be magic.

 

There are more knights and more untitled hunters beneath them, but these are Dean’s main supports. He keeps them close. Closer, ever since they lost Gordon to those vampires last year. In a way that defies propriety, they are his family.

 

That none of them are pedigree highborn is just a coincidence.

 

In any case, Jo’s moaning about the number of people who don’t seem to realize they need to bring their invitation each night. It used to be that when faced with the higher ranking nobility, she’d check with Dean after every potentially offensive thing she said, just to be sure, but that stopped while she was still his squire.

 

“So this woman keeps insisting that she shouldn’t have to present the invitation, despite the fact that it says right there on the invite that you have to bring it every single night for entry,” Jo tells Dean and Victor while they all strip out of their sweat-soaked training uniforms. This corner of the barracks is always crowded after training, so Jo has a few more people listening in than just them, but Dean trusts all of them to watch their mouths. He has to trust them to watch more than that, after all.

 

“I try to explain to her that, seeing as her invitation is not here, she can either go get it or find two people with invitations to vouch for her identity. You know what she tells me?”

 

“‘Don’t you know who I am’?” Victor guesses with the tired patience of someone who has been through this before. He’s not yet as old as Bobby and Rufus, but sometimes, his slow approach in their direction shows.

 

Jo points to him. “Yeah. And – I’m proud of this – I did not laugh. I just said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t, my lady. _You’re wearing a mask_.’”

 

Laughter spreads through the changing area, along with more stories. The occasional bit of ribbing comes in Dean’s direction, a fair enough exchange for the only person present able to attend the party as a guest, not a guard.

 

Jo keeps talking all through their showers. It’s not as weird as the way she’ll talk to people while they’re peeing, or while she is, but it’s up there. The stories are funny, at least, because Jo does know how to pick ’em. They’re toweling off by the time Dean forces himself to change the topic. Well, nudge it a little.

 

“This might sound a little strange,” he begins.

 

Victor shoots him a look. “Compared to work, or compared to the party?”

 

“Compared to normal human interaction,” Dean says, borrowing a key phrase from last night. “Jo, you might know this, you were up in a mage tower for a bit.”

 

Head in her undershirt, her response comes out muffled. “Oh goodie. What?”

 

“Did students ever, I don’t know,” Dean says. “Pretend to be interested in someone just to cut them down later?”

 

Jo emerges from the undershirt. Her mouth is a hard line, and she doesn’t flip her wet hair out of the neck of the garment. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Dean pauses with one leg through his smallclothes. “Wait, that happened to you?”

 

Jo rolls her eyes. “Put your pants on, Your Highness.”

 

“I wasn’t asking about you,” Dean says, but he does put his pants on. “I just wanted to know if people really did that.”

 

“Not sure why you’re surprised,” Victor says, lacing up his own shirt. “We’ve seen plenty worse.”

 

Sometimes, Victor has a way of stating things that implies questions. This is one of those times.

 

“I’m not surprised, I’m pissed,” Dean says.

 

Victor looks at him for a moment before nodding. “At him for accusing you of it?”

 

Sometimes, it’s clear why being the sheriff of a moderately sized village wasn’t enough for Victor. This is also one of those times.

 

“Wait, what?” Jo says.

 

“Cas thought I was pulling that on him,” Dean says, and admitting that is another kick in the teeth. “Don’t know what bothers me more, that he thought I might do it or that he went along with it anyway.” Dean laces up his breeches before turning to Victor. “What did you see? Am I imagining things?”

 

“He was focused on you each time I saw you together,” Victor answers, closer to a formal report than friendly reassurance and exactly the objectivity Dean needs. “The relentless poker face didn’t help, but I doubt his attention wavered. After he came down from the observatory, he was concerned about you. I don’t know what you think you’re imagining.”

 

“Yeah?” It shouldn’t be that much easier to breathe, simply hearing that. Fuck, but he’s in too deep.

 

“Garth!” Victor calls.

 

Garth, a more recent addition, pops his head around the tiled wall concealing the showers. “Yes?”

 

“Prince has questions.”

 

“Sure thing!” He catches the used towel Jo tosses him, wraps it about his middle, and continues to drip on the floor despite it. “What do you want to know, sire?”

 

“You were stationed in the lower east wing last night, correct?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Did you happen to observe my companion last night?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Dean sits on the floor to tug his boots on. “Your observations?”

 

“The wings were very well done, sir,” Garth replies. “Unless you’re referring to the way he was looking at you, which was also well done, I thought.”

 

“Thank you, Garth,” says Victor.

 

Garth pops a salute, tosses Jo back her towel, and ducks back inside to resume his shower.

 

“Are there any more pressing concerns?” Victor asks Dean.

 

“Oh, just every idiot in the kingdom with a title or a connection cramming themselves into a single building,” Dean says with a shrug. “While wearing masks, possibly carrying concealed weapons, and now enchanting their outfits to do who-knows-what.”

 

“I can handle that part,” Victor replies. “Unless there’s another door in particular you want me to stand outside tonight.”

 

Dean refuses to be embarrassed. “It’s a high traffic area, and last year we had drunk people climbing up those stairs and tumbling down. You saved lives, Henriksen.”

 

Victor just looks at him.

 

“But seriously,” Dean says. “Any valuable insight into the human spirit? You know people as well as I know monsters.”

 

The faint praise makes a small impact, but enough of one. “When did he want to leave?” Victor asks. “That’s the crux.”

 

“When he realized I was serious,” Dean answers without hesitation. “I don’t know how he didn’t realize that before, but–” He cuts himself off at Victor’s raised hand.

 

“Sometimes,” Victor says, “it’s safer to want someone who doesn’t want you back. A dallying prince is one thing, but a prince in true pursuit is another.”

 

“Might not even be about you,” Jo adds, tucking her trouser legs into her boots. “No offense to anyone and the highest of praise to your father, but if I thought there was a _chance_ of having the king for my father-in-law, I would have bolted.”

 

“...Right,” Dean says, and the world rearranges slightly. “I didn’t think of it that way. I mean, I’m not in line for the throne, we couldn’t have any kids who’d be in line for the throne, and it’s not like he’d see a lot of Dad anyway.”

 

“You’re still a prince, Highness,” Victor replies, like Dean is missing the obvious.

 

“I’m not that big of a deal.”

 

This time, Victor just stares at him.

 

Jo snorts. “You know that’s only true when you’re standing next to your brother, right?”

 

Before Dean can answer, or even think of an answer, a silence rolls through the barracks. It starts at the entryway and travels like a wave, and Dean knows the sounds of his knights better than the sound of his own voice. It’s a silence of attention, not wariness.

 

“Speaking of whom,” Dean muses.

 

There’s no murmur of directions asked for and received. There are only footsteps, leather soles against wood, and the increased rustling of hurried dressing. Jo sticks her head back into the shower area and tells everyone to wrap up. There’s an abrupt exodus of towel-wrapped soldiers. They disperse through the lines of wooden shelving, each speeding to their clothing to better vanish before the Mage Prince’s unspoken wish for privacy.

 

By the time Dean actually sees his brother, Sam’s already taken over the entire barracks, all without a word.

 

“I need to speak with my brother,” Sam informs Victor, who has remained at Dean’s side. Victor bows out in the most literal sense of the phrase, but Jo remains. They’d grown close on the long ride to Moondoor and back, even before the fireball incident, because despite his imposing control over his immediate surroundings, Sam still has a knack for making friends.

 

Once they’re as alone as they’ll get before the barracks entirely empties itself out, Sam relaxes enough to say, “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Jo says back. They hug, because that’s something they do now. She was Dean’s squire first, his friend second, and now she seems to be Sam’s.

 

“Tomorrow night, come to the throne room during your break,” Sam tells her. “We can get you more public recognition for saving my life, if you’re up for it.”

 

“Are you asking me to dance?” Jo asks, eyes wide.

 

Sam nods, grinning, and laughs when Jo bows deeply, the wet tangle of her hair spilling over her shoulders to flick water at his feet.

 

“I’ll be there, Highness,” Jo promises.

 

“Sam,” Sam corrects.

 

“What’d you want to talk about?” Dean asks him.

 

“See you later, Dean,” Jo says, turning to him. And back to Sam, with a smirk wide enough for two faces. “Your Highness.” She bobs another bow and departs.

 

Sam grins after her, shaking his head, and then it’s just the two of them, or at least getting close.

 

“So get this,” Sam says. “I checked out the basement storeroom logs, and I found something.”

 

“There’s something in a vault full of somethings,” Dean says. “Great job, Sammy. Good detective work.”

 

The smile falls off Sam’s face, and now Dean feels even _worse_. Awesome.

 

“Look,” Sam says, keeping his voice down while there are still others present. “I can stop you from moping all day, or I can leave you to it. Which would you rather?”

 

“I’m not moping,” Dean says.

 

They stand in silence while the rest of the knights funnel out. The noises of cloth and leather give way to those of footsteps and the door closing.

 

“All clear?” Dean calls, and no one calls back. “All clear,” he tells Sam.

 

“Heard a couple things last night,” Sam says, which is not what Dean wanted him to say. “Sounds like Castiel headed out early and you flung yourself into the party.”

 

“So?” Dean makes a point of not folding his arms across his chest. He’s not defensive.

 

“So I thought you might like to know, by eight o’clock tonight, you’ll be teaching him to dance in the library,” Sam says with absolute confidence.

 

Dean’s stomach lurches in two directions at once. “That’s the plan,” he tells his training uniform, straightening it on its peg.

 

“That’s the reality,” Sam promises. “Figured you should know that before you spend the rest of the day wondering why he doesn’t like you.”

 

“Shut up,” Dean tells him, but he means it less. He straightens his uniform a bit more. Hardly matters when it’s going to be collected and cleaned and returned before tomorrow morning, but his hands need something. “Did you, uh, pick up on anything else about him?” He clears his throat. “He’s kinda nervous about that. You constantly looking in.”

 

“It’s not him I’m looking in on,” Sam says dryly. “I’m only just starting to do it with Jess, you know.”

 

Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

Sam frowns back. “This,” he says. At Dean’s blank look, he gestures between them. At Dean’s even blanker look, Sam adds, “Us.”

 

“Gonna need more words than that, Sammy.”

 

Sam sighs. “You know I don’t just think of someone and see the rest of their day, right? I’ve got the major and minor visions, but the only predictions I ever do without a visual are you. I thought you knew that.”

 

“You’ve always just… shown up,” Dean says slowly. “I thought that’s just what you do.”

 

“Yeah, with you,” Sam says. “You know when we were little and they made us have separate tutors? I think that’s when it started.”

 

“Yeah, because you got a mage tutor.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “No, because they wouldn’t let me go to you. So I guess I started figuring out where you were instead. It helped. It’s a little different from the actual visions, too. Feels a bit more like adding sums and just knowing the answer. But only about you.”

 

Dean says nothing, mind oddly blank.

 

“I thought you knew,” Sam repeats. “I don’t stick myself in anyone else’s path like this.”

 

“Well, I’m not around to see you not doing it, am I?” Dean counters. “Besides, you know what the people around me are doing, too.”

 

“Yeah, because they’re near you.”

 

Something breaks.

 

“So, what, that somehow means you have to jump in when you hear something interesting?” Dean demands. “I’m trying to have a conversation, and you have to burst in to have a debate about angels?”

 

“No, I had to burst in before a countess mortally offended your date,” Sam shoots right back. He pulls himself up to his full, towering height. “That’s what was about to happen, Dean. She was going to say there were no angels because they all clearly became demons, and Castiel was about to tear into her like there was no tomorrow. It was going to be an amazing argument – he really knows a thing or two about converting magical power and transference loss – but she was going to dismiss him outright for being a commoner, and it was only going to get worse from there. It would have ruined your whole night.”

 

Sam must be right, because Sam is always right, but that doesn’t mean Dean has to like it. He grits his teeth and Sam cuts him off, because of course Sam knows what he’s going to say.

 

“I do know I take things from you,” Sam says, his eyes round, his hands held between them. “I know that. I walk into here and everyone leaves. I sit down at your table and the focus is on me. I know that. I don’t want to, and I don’t mean to, but I do it.”

 

Dean swallows it down.

 

Dean swallows so much down.

 

“It’s fine,” he says.

 

“No it’s not,” Sam says. “And, y’know, things with Jess, it’s just really hit me lately. Ever since I manifested, you were always the one who was supposed to have a love match instead of a political alliance, and here’s me with Jess, and I just… I’m worried.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “You can love your wife without screwing over my love life, Sammy.”

 

“You couldn’t marry Lisa,” Sam says, because of course he’s bringing that up again.

 

“Her having a mage kid has nothing to do with you,” Dean tells him.

 

“No, but if I’d had kids of my own already, you wouldn’t have had to risk getting him involved in a succession dispute.”

 

“Maybe you feel guilty, but you’re reaching pretty far right there,” Dean says. “Even if you did have kids lined up in front of him, too many people think Ben’s my bastard for him to escape the politics.”

 

“You are funding his education.”

 

“He’s a good kid,” Dean says. He’s just not _Dean’s_ good kid. “But I’m over Lisa. Stop worrying.”

 

They stand in silence for a moment. Behind the tile wall, one of the faucets drips.

 

“I like Castiel,” Sam tells him. “He knows his lore, and it looks like he can keep up with you. It could be a good match. I can see a lot of the nobles getting worked up over his background, but the people would love it.”

 

“You seeing things, or are you _seeing_ things?” Dean asks. For the second, he points to both of his own eyes with two fingers, then pulls his hand out away from his face.

 

“Just seeing things,” Sam says with a little shrug. “But I like him.”

 

“Like him all you want,” Dean says. “Just don’t make him your Last Unwed Kiss.”

 

Sam laughs a little, as if Dean were joking. “No, I think I already have a candidate lined up.”

 

It takes Dean a second. “Oh,” he says. And, yeah, it makes sense. It makes a lot of sense, but Dean doesn’t have to like it. “Guess you weren’t kidding about getting Jo that public recognition.”

 

“What? Dean, no,” Sam says. “I mean, Jo’s great, but she’s your Last Unwed Kiss, not mine.”

 

Dean stares at him. The only thought in his head is: a petite blonde woman, for a tall dark-haired man. Symbolic opposites.

 

“That’s not a vision,” Sam hastens to explain. “That’s just me knowing you.”

 

“She is, yeah,” Dean mumbles. He picks at his cuffs. Still inspecting them, he clears his throat. “So, uh, who’s your contender?”

 

“You remember that doctor Jess was talking to?”

 

“That Royal Hospital guy?” Dean asks. “Guess he’s gotta be a big deal if the director gave up her invite to him.”

 

“You have no idea,” Sam says, and he puts on his gushing face. “He only started in February.”

 

“Last February?”

 

“No,” Sam says. “February. He’s been there less than three months.”

 

Dean frowns. “And the director gave him her invite?”

 

“As a hiring bonus, it sounds like,” Sam says. “He’s like a living breakthrough in touch healing. He interviewed at the hospital and a couple of private ones, and after he did his demonstration, everyone was fighting over him.”

 

Dean keeps on frowning. “A breakthrough in breath healing might be something, but touch style? I mean, points for being less awkward, but the power transference loss is ridiculous. The only reason Cleric Jim does both styles is because he has to pull shit out of our insides by hand sometimes.”

 

“Whatever he’s doing, it’s more effective,” Sam says. “And I don’t mean over regular touch style. I mean over _breath style_.”

 

“This guy is for real?” Dean asks. “How come no one’s heard of him before? Where’d he study?”

 

“He travels,” Sam says. “He’s been all over the continent by the sound of it. That’s what he’s really interested in, traveling. He moves around until his traveling funds run out, and then he finds work at a hospital or a clinic or starts his own.”

 

“Well, we definitely know he’s not a noble, then,” Dean says.

 

Sam laughs. “No kidding. I think Jess’s dad is still traumatized by the idea she might want to actually use her healing powers on people.”

 

Dean leans back against the vertical plank separating his belongings from Jo’s. “That’s impressive and all, but I don’t get why he’s your leading candidate.”

 

“There’s something about him,” Sam says without hesitation. He smiles a little. “I mean, on top of the stories of everywhere he’s been.”

 

Maybe there’s something more and maybe there isn’t, but it’s definitely the travel stories that got Sam. He’d been thrilled half out of his mind to go to Moondoor for Dean’s birthday, just to get out of the castle.

 

“Guess I’ll have to meet him,” Dean says instead of pointing this out.

 

“Definitely,” Sam says. “Maybe the four of us could share a dance tonight, if you can teach Castiel that quickly.”

 

“We can give it a shot.” He rolls his shoulder, the wood not exactly the most comfortable thing to lean against after a morning’s exercise. “You’re not worried about symbolism insults with this guy?”

 

Sam tilts his head a little. “How do you mean?”

 

“Symbolically giving up this miracle doctor to marry a healing mage with barely any practical experience?”

 

“Jess is fine with it, actually,” Sam says. “We talked it over.”

 

“Dude, that’s fast,” Dean says. “You met this guy two days ago.”

 

“You met Castiel two days ago,” Sam counters. “But, yeah, we talked about it. We’re gonna try to get him to stick around in the kingdom. Dean, this is a mage who can heal wounds without directly touching or breathing on them. Before him, touch range was at best one inch from the point of contact. Breath range, the _best_ you could hope for was five inches from point of contact, but he’s turned it entirely upside down. He’s been healing heart defects and broken bones with just his fingertips. Curing congenital defects, Dean, that shouldn't even be possible! Last week, he cured a _miscarriage_. While it was happening.”

 

“Yeah, that’d be great for the kingdom and all,” Dean begins.

 

Sam holds up a hand. “I’ve been worried about Jess for years,” he says. “After all the complications Mom had with me, I don’t want to risk Jess. And I definitely don’t want to subject her to anything as invasive as pregnancy healing. But if we can get Nick to stay, we won’t have to worry.” His voice breaks a little. “Whatever happens, she’ll be fine. And I… I need that. If we have to tether him down with honors, I’m willing to do it.”

 

Dean looks up into his little brother’s face, and he thinks something he’s never thought to think before. “You’re gonna be a good father, Sam.”

 

“Have to be a good husband first,” Sam replies, voice still rough.

 

They each look away and clear their throats a little.

 

“So, uh. His name’s Nick?” Dean asks.

 

“Nicholas Lightbringer,” Sam says. “I think it’s an earned title, not a family name. The way he heals, a light shines out of any open wound, right before it closes.”

 

“If this guy is the real deal, I can see why you want him for Jess,” Dean understates.

 

“He’s had the top healers in the country staring at him for three months, non-stop,” Sam says. “He’s the real thing.”

 

“I still want to check him out.”

 

“Definitely,” Sam agrees. “It’s not like we’re naming him Royal Physician just yet.”

 

“Does he know he’s getting kissed yet?” Dean asks.

 

Sam shakes his head. “Jess and I only decided last night, and we’re not going to announce it to anyone until my birthday.” He pauses. “I’m not sure he even knows the custom. Someone should probably bring that up first.”

 

Dean laughs. “You think? Not that that doesn’t sound like a great party, a guy kissing you while his fiancee watches with approval.”

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

Dean laughs harder.

 

After one last disgusted look, Sam grins back. “Now you’re feeling better, you want to hear what I found in the basement?”

 

“Was it dust?” Dean asks. “Cobwebs?”

 

“Neither,” Sam says. “Which reminds me, I should commend the cleaning staff. But no, get this. They were listed in a catalog of items retrieved from a demon stronghold a couple centuries back.” He bounces on his feet. “Two boxes with matching insignia. Guess what was inside one.”

 

“My patience for this story.”

 

“A stone tablet,” Sam tells him victoriously. “I pulled out the boxes for a look, and it’s a tablet of dark stone inscribed with a language I don’t recognize. The kind of dark stone you get in the southern mountains.”

 

“You think there’s an angel letter in the basement.”

 

“It could be!” Sam insists. “We’d need Castiel to check, but it sounds exactly like what he described last night.”

 

“Maybe tomorrow night,” Dean says. “I’ve been trying to get a dance out of him for two days, and if anyone lets him know we’ve got that, I’ll be out three for three.”

 

“Let him know at some point, all right?” Sam asks. “I’m really curious. There’s a lot of stuff the Men of Letters haven’t been able to fully classify down there.”

 

“Speaking of, what was in the second box?” Dean asks.

 

Sam shrugs a little. “A long knife. There weren’t any inscriptions on it that I could see, and the blade and hilt looked like they were made from the same piece of metal.”

 

“Iron?” Dean asks.

 

“Definitely not iron. Something more silvery.”

 

“Huh.” He shrugs back. “Well, if tonight works out, I guess I’ll have a treat for him tomorrow.”

 

Sam gives him a look. “Right. Because buying someone’s affection always works out well.”

 

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

 

“Just be careful,” Sam says. “I want to see you happy. You know that, right?”

 

“Hey, who looks after who here?” Dean asks.

 

“Both of us,” Sam says, which is totally not the right answer. “Now come on, Mom wants us both at lunch.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes but follows. “And Dad?”

 

Sam very nearly laughs. “What do you think?”

 

“Mother and sons luncheon, it is.”

 

Dean reaches for the door, but Sam gets there before him. Sam opens it wide. He gestures and, for once, Dean goes first.


	5. Third Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody ready for a GREAT BIG GIANT CHAPTER? Because this here be A GREAT BIG GIANT CHAPTER. There's a chapter break in the middle, but if you plan on plowing on through, please acquire all necessary snacks and drinks first. (When you reach the chapter break, please remember your tea. It's getting cold.)

Castiel has accidentally seduced a prince, and Balthazar won’t stop laughing.

 

Despite the increased access to the castle this should afford Castiel, Raphael is less than pleased with this development. There can be no denying the increased access comes with increased scrutiny. Additionally, all Castiel has is a list of places the tablet is not. These locations have been thoroughly ruled out, but the castle is large. Castiel assures Raphael that he is being permitted into the castle library this coming night, and this news is somewhat better received.

 

For this period’s briefing with Uriel, he focuses on what little they know of human politics and more recent history while Balthazar does what he can for Castiel’s clothing. They can exchange trousers easily enough, but while Balthazar’s shirts do tend toward the more ornate, the necklines are deeper, the wing slits higher, the back flap narrower. To wear one of Balthazar’s two shirts would be to bare the downy skin of his back and reveal the living nature of his wings. This is, of course, why Balthazar has the shirts he has, but they work against Castiel’s purpose in this regard.

 

They compromise by layering Castiel’s shirt beneath Balthazar’s first shirt. He ties the back flaps in place, tying the cords over his stomach, beneath the front of each shirt. Hannah continues to donate a thick belt and matching pouch to the cause, the only ones she has. Uriel offers his boots, which Castiel declines on the basis of being slightly too large. He assures his brother that he knows Uriel has done the best he can gathering information on the tablet, and he thanks him for the offer.

 

It is very difficult to dress for a grand party when everyone has two outfits at the very most, and every article of clothing is over six hundred years old. Trade of clothing has been rampant for centuries, each item magically renewed countless times, if only for something to do. In a quietly devastating show of support, multiple shirts are cannibalized for material for embroidery, all to better put Castiel forward. The only set of mating ribbons is donated to the cause, most of which Balthazar sets aside. He has ideas for the following nights, he promises. For now, they use one of the blue ribbons to hold Castiel’s wings in check, a gentle and aesthetically pleasing reminder not to move.

 

Of all his siblings, he needs that reminder the least. His taciturn nature is, after all, one of the reasons he was selected for this mission. Of course, it’s crucial that he’s young enough, and therefore flexible enough of magic, to fit through the portal, but it’s his proven ability to keep his wings motionless for hours at a time that is even more key in this infiltration. For an angel of his age, he hides his emotions extremely well. In short, he was chosen because he is surly and possesses little in the way of natural charm.

 

There is no lack of irony in this.

  
  


 

Tonight, a guard approaches Castiel while he is still in the entry line, not yet close to the doors, and addresses him by name. “Follow me, please,” she says, taking him out of the line to bring him to the front of it. “Invitation out.”

 

He hands it over, and she looks at for a moment before nodding. “Meet him at the tapestry.”

 

“I’m sorry?” he says.

 

She looks up at him, the picture of a soldier who understands her smaller stature puts her closer to his vital organs. She thrusts back the invitation like a stab to his intestines. “He said you’d know which tapestry. Meet him there.”

 

Castiel puts together her appearance with Prince Dean’s stories from the previous night. The two knives she wears in place of a sword are the deciding factor in her identity. “Of course. Thank you, Dame Joanna.”

 

Some sort of emotion crosses her face quickly, one Castiel couldn’t have deciphered even had it lingered. Even so, not knowing rankles.

 

“Next,” she calls past him, dismissing him, and Castiel moves on, returning his invitation to the small pouch attached to Hannah’s belt.

 

Entering the castle proper, Castiel wastes no time. When access to the library is solely at the prince’s discretion, there is no point in dallying. His steps try to shorten, but he forces them long. His feathers try to flatten, but he keeps them neutral amid his wings’ tension. His fists want to clench, but he keeps his palms open.

 

He sees the horns before he sees the man. Silver-tipped as always, they almost fade into the inaccurately white wings of the tapestry behind the prince. Standing with his back toward Castiel, Prince Dean speaks with an older human in what Castiel recognizes as a more ornate knight’s dress uniform. There are honors decorating his jacket, only some of which Castiel can interpret.

 

The older warrior sees Castiel’s approach. His eyes are already on Castiel when Castiel looks to him, and the man never pauses in his reply to Prince Dean. Prince Dean himself does not turn around until Castiel draws near and the older knight makes a small show of alerting him. This, Castiel knows, is a power play for his benefit. His reaction last night doubtlessly displeased the prince. The only question is, to what degree.

 

As he has each night upon Prince Dean’s acknowledgment of him, Castiel performs a small bow. As he has each night, he wants to counterbalance with his wings and prevents himself from doing so.

 

“Good evening, Castiel,” says Prince Dean, as formal as Castiel had initially expected a human of his station always to be.

 

“Hello, Sir Dean,” Castiel replies. He nods to the knight at Prince Dean’s side, consults his limited knowledge, and takes a calculated risk based on the age and facial hair. “Sir Robert.”

 

“So you’d be the angel expert,” the presumed Sir Robert remarks.

 

“I am,” Castiel replies. Holding Sir Robert’s gaze instead of Prince Dean’s, he adds, “Although, while I am an expert in my given areas of study, I am admittedly inexperienced in most other… pursuits.”

 

Sir Robert’s mustache rustles in a remarkably similar fashion to scapular feathers, but Castiel cannot assume this also means amusement. “Suppose you’ll have to let our Knight Prince teach you, then. A good hunter knows a thing or two about pursuing.”

 

“I would imagine he must.”

 

Sir Robert regards Castiel. Castiel regards Sir Robert in turn, periodically taking the quickest of looks toward Prince Dean, as if too intimidated or embarrassed to gaze directly upon him.

 

At last, Sir Robert finishes his inspection with a nod. He claps Prince Dean on the shoulder. “Good hunting, boy. You know where I’ll be.”

 

“Thanks, Bobby,” Prince Dean answers.

 

With one last squeeze of the shoulder, Sir Robert departs, leaving them alone. After the intensity of Sir Robert’s attention, the crowd of party-going onlookers and bystanders doesn’t quite seem to count as company.

 

Castiel bows his head slightly and, keeping his face down-turned, looks up at Prince Dean.

 

“Don’t,” Prince Dean orders before Castiel can say a single word. “Don’t supplicate.”

 

Castiel straightens. Not completely. Just enough for what he hopes looks like a facade of bravery. “Might we speak in private?”

 

“We might,” Prince Dean allows, his voice steady in a way Castiel can’t help but dislike. “How long might we be speaking in private?”

 

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. He takes another gamble when he takes Prince Dean by the arm. “It’s only seven thirty.”

 

Beneath Castiel’s hand, Prince Dean is tense. The sensation is worse than the too-even thread in his voice, but Prince Dean doesn’t pull away. Instead, he says, “I know a place.” He secures Castiel’s hand on his arm with his own, the calluses of his palm rough against Castiel’s knuckles, a fascinating human texture.

 

When they move, they move together, Castiel syncing his steps to the prince’s. Insofar as is possible in a castle full of talk and music, they walk in silence. Allowing himself to be guided, Castiel watches Prince Dean for any expression, for every hint. Once, twice, Prince Dean looks back at him, and Castiel does not look away.

 

Tonight, Prince Dean leads him to a larger doorway leading to a wide stairwell, the empty arch of it partitioned off with heavy, decorative rope and flanked by two guards. With a nod to the guards, Prince Dean steps over the rope before helping Castiel in turn. His impaired balance forces him to lean on the prince, flap his wings, or fall, and so Castiel leans.

 

They mount the stairs, the way mercifully wider than the previous night’s climb. Castiel relinquishes his hold on Prince Dean’s arm in favor of the railing. Immediately, he knows this to have been a misstep. The prince is undeniably calmed by touch.

 

At the top of the stairs, there is another hallway, and down this hallway is another tall door. It opens easily at Prince Dean’s touch, its hinges immense and well-oiled. Prince Dean enters without looking to see whether Castiel will follow him, and he doesn’t hold the door open for him.

 

The room is immense and constructed in a similar style to the throne room. The rectangular stone pillars are more than decorative. Each sports two pairs of sconces, one pair at eye level and one far above. Through this, the high ceiling is freed of shadows and the shelves set into the walls are illuminated all the way up. Numerous display cases are scattered throughout, the glint on their glass concealing their contents. Wooden tables stretch in a row down the length of the library, leading toward a tall set of glass doors and a small balcony beyond. Judging by the music leaking through them, the doors open up facing the courtyard below.

 

Castiel takes this in at a glance before closing the door behind them. When he turns back, Prince Dean is already leaning against the edge of a table and studying him intently.

 

Head held high, Castiel tells him, “I’d like to apologize for panicking last night. That was poorly done.”

 

“Is that what you panicking looks like?” Prince Dean asks. He doesn’t push off from the table. He doesn’t decrease the distance between them. He leans with his arms folded and his feet crossed at the ankles. They are alone in a vast room, and Prince Dean is holding court.

 

“I turn cold,” Castiel answers. “Moreover, on matters of ignorance, I grow silent.”

 

Silver-tipped horns tilt. Technically, Prince Dean smiles. It could as easily indicate sadness as a threat. Unaware of the irony, Prince Dean says, “You don’t seem like you have many areas of ignorance.”

 

“It’s a perception I’ve worked hard to cultivate,” Castiel replies. “The fact of the matter remains that I have never wooed, nor have I been courted.”

 

The tilt of the horns changes. “You’re older than I am,” Prince Dean says, which seems to be an expression of doubt.

 

“I am,” Castiel answers, “which is as much of my age as I’m currently willing to own.”

 

“And you’re saying you’ve never pursued anyone.”

 

“I am saying I’ve always had something else to pursue.” He holds his arms in apology as he would his wings: curved forward, palms up, beseeching. “I told you the night we met that I did not come here to socialize. I meant that in the truest sense. The only reason my sponsor permitted me to come here was the belief that it would further my current project. I’m not meant to have time for anything else.”

 

Prince Dean’s arms are no longer crossed quite so tightly. “What, your department head thought you’d spend the entire time staring at architecture? That’s ridiculous.”

 

“Many serious things are,” Castiel agrees. He approaches slowly, as if allowing himself to be drawn. “Sir Dean, please understand, I am not in a position to take risks. There was much invested to send me here, and if I return empty-handed after so many people have seen me dallying with you, there will be consequences. The fault is my own, the dilemma mine, but I felt you would wish to know of it.”

 

At last, Prince Dean stands from his lean. He regards Castiel in his typical unknowable fashion. “You get really formal when you’re nervous, you know that, right?”

 

“I’m aware,” Castiel answers. “I have also been informed that this is how one is meant to speak with a prince.”

 

“I think your sponsor’s an idiot,” Prince Dean continues, not listening. “I don’t care who I’m insulting. They’re an idiot.”

 

“They have high expectations,” Castiel replies, “and I have always been able to match them before.”

 

“They sent you to a party to do research.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No,” Prince Dean says. “Not tonight.”

 

Castiel tilts his head. He attempts a small frown of the mouth, primarily a motion of the lower lip. “I don’t understand.”

 

“You can research tomorrow,” Prince Dean tells him. “I mean that. Tomorrow night, you can hit the books, do whatever it is you need to do to justify this trip to the idiot funding you. But tonight, you take a break.”

 

“That’s not permissible.”

 

“I’m permitting it.” Prince Dean steps closer, deeply into Castiel’s space. “There are three people in this kingdom who outrank me, and none of them are sponsoring you. Which means, I’m overruling it. Tonight, you get to be self-serving.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “In matters of survival, even servitude itself can become self-serving.”

 

“Cas,” Prince Dean says, and he takes Castiel’s hands in his. This is what forthrightness looks like in a human: a straight back with curved shoulders, tilting in toward its target. “It’s one night. You can take one night off. The question is, do you want to?”

 

“Will I still be spending it with you?”

 

Prince Dean softens, the lines of his jaw and shoulders melting. “Yeah.”

 

“Then I want to,” Castiel tells him. He’ll hardly be allowed into this library unaccompanied. “But I–”

 

Prince Dean squeezes his hands. “Nope. Too late. Decision’s made.”

 

“No, it isn’t.”

 

“Wrong. Totally is. Stop disagreeing, that’s treason.”

 

Castiel narrows his eyes. “That’s not how treason works.”

 

Prince Dean laughs and keeps holding Castiel’s hands. He doesn’t squeeze again, doesn’t adjust his grip, but the sheer continuation of this hold is an impossibly thorough distraction. When his thumbs finally slide across Castiel’s skin, it’s almost a relief.

 

“Look,” Prince Dean says. The mirth drains from his eyes but something else remains. “If tomorrow night doesn’t pan out and there are consequences, those will be on me. Honestly, it sounds like you need a better sponsor anyway. I can make that happen.”

 

The last thing Castiel needs is the royal family inquiring into Castiel’s status – or even his existence – at the university. “I don’t want to be beholden to you that way,” Castiel tells him, holding Prince Dean’s hands tightly in return. “What’s more, I would be alarmed if you wanted me beholden to you that way.”

 

“I know people,” Prince Dean says. “Seriously, it might be a good thing you’re missing Sam’s wedding. If Charlie saw you, she’d grab you right up. I mean it, Cas. You’re not obligated to stay with the first person who gave you a leg up.”

 

“I haven’t,” Castiel says, because Raphael is not Michael. “He died.”

 

“The second, then.”

 

Again, Prince Dean strokes with this thumbs. There are circles and sliding, and it unsettles something inside Castiel deeply. Using a human level of effort, he tries to stop Prince Dean, and this leads to a strange sort of finger-trapping dance of motion, fingers moving against fingers. Both of them look down to watch their own hands like foreign creatures.

 

Feeling the touch of metal against the top of his head, Castiel looks back up, and their masked faces are very close. Prince Dean lifts his face, and the horns rise from Castiel’s head.

 

“If you wanted to apply to the Men of Letters, you could,” Prince Dean tells him. His voice is quiet, softer than the music still creeping through the balcony doors. “I wouldn’t be giving you a spot there, either. My father’s the one with the final say, and I can’t sway him one inch. It’s more of a modern research bent than what you’re used to, but it’s a solid position. The application is rough and the trial period is worse, but I think you’d be up to it.”

 

As he must so often in this strange world, so much changed from what he once knew, Castiel takes a gamble. If tonight guarantees him free range of inquiry tomorrow, he has no other choice. He says, “I thought I was taking the night off.”

 

Prince Dean responds by displaying nearly all of his teeth at once. “Yeah?”

 

Castiel nods. His face thus down-turned, he holds position and attempts a mouth smile, gentle at each side. He focuses on moving his lips rather than showing his teeth, and when he looks up through the holes of his mask, he finds the effect well-received. Though Castiel is a novice at facial expressions, he is excellent at postures of deference. All former soldiers of Michael serving under Raphael have to be.

 

Prince Dean clears his throat. Voice rough, he says, “Couple things.”

 

Castiel tilts his head attentively, and Prince Dean’s mouth twitches.

 

“Sorry, that was the most bird-like thing I’ve ever seen. Even without a beak on that mask.”

 

“That wasn’t one of the things,” Castiel assumes.

 

“No, it wasn’t.” Though without food or drink, Prince Dean swallows. The corresponding motion of his neck is strange but far from displeasing. “First thing. When you want me to kiss you, you gotta say.”

 

This seems needlessly vague. “When I want you to, or when I want you to act upon that wanting?”

 

“Um,” Prince Dean says. His eyes are round but very dark. “Both? Let’s go with both. Just, uh. I just don’t want to take you by surprise again, that’s all.”

 

“That’s very considerate of you.”

 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Prince Dean licks his lips. He swallows again, and Castiel watches both motions intently. “Considerate.”

 

“You implied a second matter, Sir Dean.”

 

“Just Dean. Like this, just Dean.” He doesn’t so much gesture between them as he gestures around them, perhaps indicating privacy. The distraction of an abruptly empty hand prevents Castiel from studying the motion as thoroughly as he would like.

 

“You’re already very informal,” Castiel says. Perhaps he ought to be frowning here, but he can’t spare the concentration to make the attempt. “Everyone else answers to their highest title, but it’s widely accepted that you respond to your lowest.”

 

“Knight Prince tradition,” Prince Dean explains. “Plus, it’s my favorite. But when you’re being wooed, you call the other person by their name, all right?”

 

“Was that the second matter, Sir Dean?” Castiel asks.

 

Prince Dean waits.

 

“Was that the second matter, Dean?”

 

“Yes,” Prince Dean says. “I mean, no. It is now.”

 

“Then there’s a third matter?”

 

“Yeah, speaking of things that come in threes.” He looks at Castiel in what Castiel imagines is a significant manner. He lifts his hand which still holds Castiel’s and sets his free hand, warm and wide, against Castiel’s hip. His fingers don’t quite brush Castiel’s feathers. It’s close enough for all of the tension and far enough for none of the relief. “Third night, Cas. We should be having our third dance tonight.”

 

“I still don’t know how to dance.”

 

“That’s why I’m going to teach you. Up here, without people watching. Yeah?”

 

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be researching tonight,” Castiel jokes. He’s uncertain he’s used the right tone until Prince Dean’s lips tug to the side.

 

“I might not be the genius in the room, but I’m not dumb enough to think I could stop you entirely.” Prince Dean sways in close, slow, before practically springing away, tugging on Castiel’s hand. “C’mon, over here.”

 

He pulls Castiel past the line of tables, pausing only to discard his mask on the last of them. “Don’t want to brain you with the horns again,” he explains. He releases Castiel as well, but only for a moment. Once he opens the balcony doors wide enough for the music to be truly heard, he returns.

 

Last night, starlight and moonlight had framed the features of his revealed face. Tonight, the magelight of the sconces suits him just as well. His brow and eyes. His nose and lips. The faint freckles fading into his cheeks.

 

Grateful for the excuse to stop wearing his own feathers on his face, Castiel unmasks as well. He suppresses his initial urge to tuck the mask beneath his left alula and instead sets it upon the closest table.

 

Prince Dean watches him and says nothing. He simply looks at Castiel for what feels like a very long time, which Castiel objectively knows lasts only seconds.

 

“How should I stand?” Castiel asks beneath this scrutiny.

 

“You, right,” Prince Dean says. “Right.” He moves forward, hands reaching, and Castiel allows himself to be molded like so much clay. “That’s your basic frame for joined dances. Those are the two main types, joined and interchanging. We don’t exactly have people to swap out with up here, so I’m starting you with joined. Think we’re gonna have to adjust a little, too. Normally, the taller person gets their hand on the other person’s back, but I don’t think I can fit my hand under there. So we switch positions. Unless you’re okay with me pressing down on those wings.”

 

“I’d rather you avoid it.”

 

“Then your hand goes here–” He places Castiel’s hand on his side. “–or farther back if you want. And that means my hand goes here.” He presses down on Castiel’s shoulder, his hand a firm weight despite his insubstantial human strength.

 

A lesson follows with hands upon hips and shoulders and hands. The adjustments Prince Dean makes to his stance are quick and light and easily memorized. The steps begin simply and grow complicated by increments. Castiel follows well enough until turns are introduced, and then his balance fails him.

 

“Whoa, gotcha,” Prince Dean reassures him, hands sliding to Castiel’s elbows as he slows Castiel’s stagger. “Got you. Hold on tighter, that’ll help.” He positions Castiel again, his arm twisting as he brings Castiel’s hand to the small of his own back. “Yeah, there. Really hold on. I’ve got you.” He lays his arm across Castiel’s shoulders, his palm hotly cupping the back of Castiel’s neck. The unexpected scrape of his hand makes Castiel shiver despite the heat, and Prince Dean grins. “We can compensate.”

 

“Can we try it again more slowly?” Castiel asks.

 

“Yeah,” Prince Dean says, and they do. They move at half-speed against the music playing outside. The closer positioning narrows the gap between their bodies all the way down to their feet. Between one long step and another, the outside of his thigh brushes against the inside of Prince Dean’s, and then vice versa.

 

They move faster, more smoothly. Prince Dean warns him with the pressure of his hands, and this time, they spin instead of stumbling. Castiel holds on as tightly as he dares, and Dean keeps him balanced, keeps him moving, elation plain on his face.

 

When the song gives way to another, Prince Dean shows him another variation on the dance, and another. Between murmuring instructions, Prince Dean asks, “Why am I not surprised you’re a quick learner?”

 

“Because you have high expectations for me,” Castiel replies.

 

Fingers curl against his nape. “Hey.” Prince Dean guides him to a stop. “This isn’t a test. This is a party. We’re getting ready to head out there and have fun. If I thought you wouldn’t mind stumbling around in front of people, we’d already be out there. Plus, I figured you’d want to learn something new, night off from research or not.”

 

“Oh.” The lessons take on a new significance. “Thank you.”

 

“I’m not doing this to embarrass you, Cas,” Prince Dean tells him, face close, head gently bowed. “I mean that. Gonna make it a great night for you.”

 

“And for you?”

 

Prince Dean keeps brushing his fingertips across the back of Castiel’s neck. Touching his hair. Curling over the line of his spine. His arm has sunk somewhat behind Castiel’s shoulders, lightly nestled between Castiel’s shoulders and wings. “I’m good,” he says.

 

Once more, the music changes, this shift more drastic than each of the previous transitions.

 

“I don’t know what to do for this rhythm,” Castiel tells him.

 

“This is for an interchanging dance,” Prince Dean says. “Swapping partners, making patterns, those. I’m, uh. Yeah, I’m gonna keep it simple there. We’re sticking with demi-quadrilles. That’s four people, not four couples. That’s three switches: your partner, next person, their partner, your partner again. So, four people, four parts. Got it?”

 

Castiel nods.

 

Prince Dean releases him, stepping back. Unthinkingly, Castiel follows, matching each step. Not unkindly, Prince Dean laughs. “Yeah, you’ve got this,” Prince Dean praises, reflexively holding him. Now that Castiel’s experienced it, it feels a more natural way to stand. “It’s a different frame, though, for what I’ve got in mind.” He releases Castiel a second time, and this time, Castiel stays.

 

Prince Dean names the individual gestures and motions. The ways to extend the arm, to offer the hand. When palm meets palm, versus when the backs of the hands meet instead. Once Castiel can mirror each motion competently, Prince Dean drills him up and down the list without providing an example. At last, Prince Dean nods approvingly.

 

“Good. Let’s put that together.”

 

Instead of serving as a mirror, Prince Dean takes up the position of the primary partner this time. Their hands touch before they turn apart. They circle. The music outside changes back to the style of a joined dance, but they persist, Prince Dean keeping a steady count above it all. Dean shows him how the first exchange of partner would work, first playing the role of the leaving partner, then hopping quickly to the side to return as the arriving partner.

 

The greeting motion is meant to be a meeting of the backs of the hands, laid against each other at eye level, palms open and fingers pointing to the ceiling. It’s meant to be this, but Prince Dean’s hurried hop between the parts is amusing, the competing rhythms are distracting, and muscle memory is strong. In minding his wings, Castiel has forgotten his arms.

 

Instead of the appropriate motion, his hand rises in a gentle block. His arm crosses Prince Dean’s at the wrist.

 

Prince Dean pauses. His eyes flick down to where Castiel’s other hand has risen into an unarmed guarding position.

 

Castiel corrects his lapse, but only once his martial stance has been thoroughly seen.

 

They continue as if uninterrupted. They perform the switch again, and this time, Castiel handles it correctly. This time, however, Prince Dean comments.

 

“I was wondering about that,” he says. “Your muscle control. Where does a scholar get trained to fight?”

 

“I had to learn when I was younger,” Castiel replies.

 

“That was a formal stance.”

 

“I learned from a soldier. We all did.”

 

“‘We’?” Prince Dean asks. “Were you in an orphanage or a barracks?”

 

“My siblings,” Castiel says, answering only the first question.

 

“You have siblings?”

 

“Why are you surprised?”

 

Even with the distraction of conversation, Prince Dean never wavers or hesitates through the motions of the dance. His words themselves are subsumed into the rhythm his body dictates. “Are they blood siblings?”

 

“We have the same parents,” Castiel allows, “in the sense that we have none.” Perhaps an angel who cracks open an egg of grace could be considered a contributor, but certainly not a parent, not when the eggs form on their own. There must be at least three in the Kingdom of Heaven by now, each quietly growing without another angel to deem them ready and release the fledglings inside. Castiel’s own egg had hatched five. These next, after so long incubating, may contain upward of a dozen each. “As far as these relations go, they are my siblings.”

 

“And you all learned how to fight?”

 

Castiel nods against the beat. They make the final “switch” back to the original partner, and Dean stops him there. He takes Castiel’s hands and inspects them, his touch perfunctory, his permission assumed. He strokes his thumbs across Castiel’s palms before inspecting his knuckles.

 

“You haven’t had to fight in a long time,” Prince Dean observes, still holding his hands as if there might be proof within Castiel's skin. Castiel fights the urge to inspect the prince’s in turn.

 

“It was half a lifetime ago. More.” No matter how the tensions rise in their banishment, drills are not the same as true combat.

 

“Not long enough,” Prince Dean says, strangely offended by the idea. “Are they all right? Your family.”

 

Castiel doesn’t intend to hesitate, but that is precisely what hesitation is.

 

Holding their hands between them, Prince Dean steps close, a motion they’ve danced with. Unlike in their dancing, he doesn’t turn or step to the side. “Cas?”

 

“Anna is dead,” he says, the simplest phrasing of it. “The rest of us are fine.”

 

There is something behind Prince Dean’s face. In his face, there are the resting features any angel would consider normal, but behind it, there is something human which Castiel does not understand. The removal of Prince Dean’s mask has revealed nothing more than beauty.

 

“I’m sorry,” Prince Dean says.

 

“It was a long time ago,” Castiel tells him, as if that matters.

 

“If something happened to Sam,” Prince Dean begins. “I mean, putting aside the kingdom going to my cousins, and that is putting aside a _lot_ , I…” He trails off, shaking his head. “You don’t want to talk about this.”

 

“I do find it strange the crown wouldn’t go to you,” Castiel says, eagerly taking hold of this tangent.

 

Prince Dean looks at him oddly. “Not a mage, Cas.”

 

“The world used to be a very different place.”

 

For whatever reason, this earns a faint smile. “Yeah?”

 

“There once were Knight Kings.”

 

The faint smile disappears. Prince Dean doesn’t tense beneath Castiel’s hands, but he certainly isn’t relaxed. “This is what you were talking about last night. Primogeniture ignoring magehood.” He pauses. “How was that only last night?”

 

“It does seem longer,” Castiel agrees. Though the two nights ahead appear infinitesimal, the two behind stretch beyond belief. The subjectivity is bothersome, as if Prince Dean’s presence transcends time itself. “It’s strange to think this halfway over.”

 

At that, Prince Dean draws him in close and places Castiel’s hands back upon his body. “Let’s, uh. Check how well you remember the first part. The joined dances. And if you’re still good with the interchanging one I showed you, we can head down.”

 

“Can we talk while we dance?” Castiel asks.

 

“Distraction’s always a good way to test ability,” Prince Dean replies. He guides Castiel into motion, keeping at a half-speed. “We run distraction drills, you know. Me and the knights. How fast can you draw a ward while having things thrown at you, can you recite an exorcism with everyone yelling, that kind of thing.”

 

Before Castiel was selected for this mission, there had been trials. All of the angels young enough to bend their magic through the small portal had been tested on both their knowledge of humanity and the speed at which they could learn from reports on the subject. Combat was an important feature, as it ought to have been while seeking a tablet demons also pursue.

 

Above all else, however, had been stealth. To reveal themselves as angels would be to announce to the humans that they possessed an item of infinite value. In a realm fashioned of illusion, containing only the personal effects of the angels at their time of banishment, they have nothing with which to bargain. They cannot trade, and so their best candidate must steal back what was stolen.

 

When Uriel had brought them word of Seer Shurley’s prophecy, Uriel had thought himself the obvious choice for the role of infiltrator. Privately, Castiel had agreed. Uriel’s illusions were the most practiced, his knowledge the most complete, but Raphael had decided differently. Why risk a human reaching through an illusion and touching invisible wings when the party was to be a masquerade?

 

The tests of stealth had begun simply. They kept their wings tightly folded for hours, enduring aches and boredom in equal measure. Later, there were physical feats to be performed. Rather than catch his balance, Castiel kept his wings closed and allowed himself to fall. Again and again, he fell, but he never broke. When he caught himself, if he caught himself, he used his hands alone.

 

The final feat had been the hardest, as socialization has never been Castiel’s strong point. Each of his rejected rivals became themselves part of the test. They brandished their wings in anger, feathers flared. They ruffled and arched and flapped, and at no point did Castiel mirror them in the slightest way. They wheedled and insulted and yelled, and Castiel did not move.

 

Before this test began, Balthazar had taken him aside. Before the barrage began, Balthazar held his shoulder and asked forgiveness for what he was about to do. Castiel had granted it, and thanked him. Balthazar’s wings had screeched with guilt, and even before the test began, Castiel had not moved.

 

Here and now, Prince Dean speaks of distraction drills, and Castiel asks, “Is that effective?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Prince Dean says. “Nothing can compare to experience in the field, but it’s good prep.”

 

“You train with your knights yourself?” Michael once had. Raphael would never.

 

“Every morning,” Prince Dean confirms with a nod. “Unless we’re out on a hunt. Then you gotta conserve energy. Get your basic warm-up in, but don’t push it.”

 

Castiel studies him, considering both the human and the legacy stretching behind him. They move through the rest of that particular dance without speaking. Despite the music and the hubbub of festivities below, it remains quiet in the library. There is breathing, and footsteps, and the slide of hands upon cloth. A glut of sensations.

 

“Full-speed,” Prince Dean tells him, and they begin anew without stopping. Their turns grow tighter, their bodies closer. Prince Dean guides him lightly and holds him firmly. “Watch my eyes, not your feet.” Castiel obeys, and the threat of falling slowly dissipates.

 

Incrementally, Castiel relaxes into trust.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Prince Dean asks. His voice is low and rough, as if with disuse.

 

“You,” Castiel summarizes.

 

For the first time, there is a misstep in Prince Dean’s footwork. He recovers quickly from the attempted tangle of feet and legs, and he pulls Castiel along with him. “Well,” he says. “In that case. Carry on.”

 

Castiel does.

 

They finish this dance and Prince Dean says, “Again.”

 

They do it again, smoother, more showy. They add embellishments, Castiel first spinning Prince Dean, then in turn being spun out. He uses his momentum to keep himself upright before falling back into the support of Prince Dean’s arms. “Just like that,” Prince Dean praises. “I got you. You got this. Ready for the next one?”

 

Castiel nods. They slow themselves once more, starting over.

 

“Still gotta distract you,” Prince Dean says. “C’mon, talk to me, Cas. What’re you thinking about me?”

 

“The dichotomy between person and position,” Castiel replies.

 

Prince Dean blinks at him but does not falter. “Sexy.”

 

Unsure of what to make of that comment, Castiel chooses to ignore it. “You’re extremely informal. You are the fourth highest ranking individual of this kingdom, and yet you would invite an orphan to call you by name. The only pretenses at aristocratic speech you make are performed when surrounded by nobility. Rather than solely direct your troops from above, you train and fight alongside your personal division. Your hands are calloused and scarred. You’re aware of the problems of the kingdom from the ground-up.”

 

“I’m also not sure where you’re going with this,” Prince Dean adds, and there is no smile in his mouth.

 

“The demarcations of Knight Prince and Mage Prince once solely referred to whether an heir’s might was primarily in military or magical force,” Castiel explains. “There were Knight Princes who were mages. A thousand years ago, His Majesty your father would have been considered a Knight King.”

 

Prince Dean’s eyebrows take an abrupt leap higher on his face.

 

“There were Knight Kings and Mage Kings,” Castiel continues, “but when the bias toward mages grew too pronounced, certain practicalities changed to ensure the ascendancy of a Mage King, even over an older brother.”

 

“You’re only saying princes and kings,” Prince Dean says.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why are you only saying princes and kings?”

 

Castiel cocks his head. “Because a woman couldn’t claim the throne then.”

 

Prince Dean laughs. “Wish I could have seen you tell my grandmother that.”

 

“The bias toward men was eventually usurped by the bias toward mages,” Castiel explains, condensing centuries of reports. Uriel has long amused them with word of what he refers to as human idiocy. “Perhaps the official tipping point was four hundred years ago, when a Knight Prince first stepped down for a younger Mage Princess.”

 

“Stepped down?” Prince Dean echoes.

 

“Is this really so strange to you?” Castiel asks. “Surely someone of your station would be better taught his own history.”

 

“Demons might not be able to get into our buildings, but they still find ways of setting our libraries on fire,” Prince Dean replies. “Besides, Sam’s the one who got the in-depth education. They didn’t bother wasting the full thing on me. I mean, I can recite the royal line back all the way to Colt off the top of my head, but I always just assumed the long run of kings was some kind of birth order fluke.”

 

“It wasn’t,” Castiel says. “Also, the transition between Knight Princes serving as generals and serving as soldiers was a deliberate one. That would be… Five hundred and eighty years ago, roughly.” Uriel had made a particularly memorable joke about it, one best not repeated to any human. “When one heir was seen as too dangerous to take the throne, he might be sent on a mission, ostensibly for glory, but in reality, to die.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Prince Dean asks, never pausing in their dance. If anything, he moves them faster, whirls Castiel harder. His hand drags against Castiel’s wings as he recovers Castiel from a particularly strong spin.

 

“Because I’m curious how a tradition of disposing of an heir turned into the position you hold.”

 

“No one’s _disposing_ of me,” Prince Dean tells him, his body harder than it should be. “And I do a lot of good out there, Cas, this isn’t that prideful bullshit of sticking some noble armchair general out in the field.”

 

“Exactly,” Castiel agrees. “It’s changed into something crucial. I understand that, as an only child, His Majesty your father had to fill both roles before he took the throne.”

 

Prince Dean’s eyebrows pull down as they dance. Even as the prince stares, they remain there, furrowed and low over his eyes.

 

“Last night,” Castiel says, “you were speaking of the public’s fear of anti-possession tattoos, in the mistaken belief they could serve as blood sigils.”

 

“It’s not mistaken, that’s the thing,” Prince Dean says. “There was a bastard who pulled that back in my grandmother’s reign. People thought they were protected and then they started dropping like flies. That’s not the kind of thing you forget.”

 

“You’ve spoken to the people affected,” Castiel assumes. “Relatives of the victims. Years after the fact.”

 

“Yeah? I wanted to know why everyone was so scared. So?”

 

“Who were they?”

 

“The kind of people you’d expect to get preyed on. Not enough money to afford the real thing, low down enough not to be missed.”

 

“But you spoke with them,” Castiel persists. “The fourth most important person in the entire country, and this is _normal_ now.”

 

“Yeah?” Prince Dean says. Without warning, he introduces a new piece of footwork, but Castiel suffers little more than the need for two ungainly hops. “And?”

 

“And I don’t think you understand how extraordinary you are,” Castiel concludes.

 

Prince Dean stops dancing. Castiel stumbles into him, and the prince’s arms try to close around his back. Castiel catches himself against Prince Dean’s chest, his hands on the prince’s shoulders, his arms as tightly folded between them as his wings are against his back.

 

Warm hands stroke up his wings, ruffling him terribly, before gripping his shoulders in turn. Prince Dean eases him away a step. He stares down at Castiel and he licks his lips and he says, “That’s gotta be the most roundabout compliment I’ve ever heard.”

 

“It was an observation, not a compliment,” Castiel corrects, and Prince Dean’s face makes another one of his strange non-motions.

 

“Y’know,” Prince Dean says, “every time I wonder how come nobody’s snatched you up yet, you do something that kinda spells out why.”

 

“I’ve been reliably informed it’s my personality,” Castiel answers plainly.

 

Prince Dean’s mouth twitches, but judging from his eyes, it’s in a good way.

 

“Should I begin again?” Castiel asks.

 

“You can give it a shot.”

 

“I think your role as a hunter is a credit to your family, and your actions as a hunter are a credit to you,” Castiel states. “I think it’s unexpected that a force for good could come out of such roots, but it evidently has.”

 

“Look, I just kill shit and protect Sam,” Prince Dean says. “Not in that order.”

 

“You do more,” Castiel replies.

 

Outside, the musicians pause in their playing, and there is the noise of hands hitting hands.

 

Without the music tethering him, Prince Dean pulls away. “You want a water break? We should have a water break.” He strides to the nearest table, past their discarded masks to where a pitcher and two glasses wait upon a folded white cloth. None of the other tables sport such a pitcher. He pours for them both, a prince for an alleged orphan, and he seems to see nothing strange when he offers Castiel a glass. “How long have we been at this?”

 

“It struck eight some time ago, but I haven’t heard the toll for nine,” Castiel says.

 

“Probably soon, though,” Prince Dean says, wandering farther away. He cranes his neck, inspecting an item on one of the bookshelves. “Yeah, it’s five minutes until the hour.” He returns at a brisk pace but stops with the table between them. Their long proximity turns the distance strange.

 

As Prince Dean drinks, apparently needing the water, Castiel reflects on the state of the human. A lightly flushed face is something Castiel can match, but the sweat dotting Prince Dean’s brow will be harder to replicate. Turning toward the balcony, he walks forward as if looking out. In reality, he dips his fingers into his glass and rubs them across his forehead, moving his arm as if wiping away sweat, not placing it. The rest of the water, he drinks slowly. The clock tower tolls the hour and, soon after, the musicians resume their playing.

 

Wiping at his forehead again, Castiel turns back to Prince Dean. No longer standing with the table between them, Prince Dean sits on the near edge of that table, knees spread wide. He watches Castiel steadily and makes no effort to pretend otherwise.

 

Castiel approaches. He stops before the prince, standing not quite between his knees. He leans in to set his glass back upon the table, and he makes sure the motion keeps his head lower than Prince Dean’s. Throughout, they watch each other.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Castiel asks him.

 

Prince Dean quirks his lips. “You.”

 

Castiel moves his lips into a smile, slow at the edges. He keeps it there, a small thing, but it seems to please.

 

“Is it an astronomy thing?” Prince Dean asks. “Meteorology? What?”

 

Castiel tilts his head.

 

“You’re always staring at the sky,” Prince Dean says. “Every chance you get.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel says.

 

“Oh?”

 

“I’d hoped not to be so obvious,” Castiel replies.

 

Prince Dean turns his head slightly, as if trying to listen harder. “About…?”

 

“I’m mildly claustrophobic,” he confesses. It’s the best word for what he has. He hadn’t realized it until he’d forced himself back through the portal, that first night, but it’s true. He imagines it’s true for his entire species by now.

 

“Oh,” Prince Dean says.

 

Castiel steps back and offers Prince Dean his hand.

 

Prince Dean takes it and hops off the table. “I think we should run through the interchanging dance, just to be sure, and then we can head down. Courtyard first.”

 

“You needn’t indulge me,” Castiel tells him.

 

“So you can indulge me instead,” Prince Dean counters. “Because as it so happens, our first dance would have been in the courtyard, the first night. And it would have been in the great hall, last night. You see what I’m getting at here?”

 

“We’re publicly dancing three times tonight, ending in the throne room?” Castiel extrapolates.

 

“You got it,” Prince Dean says. He tilts his head slightly and closes just one of his eyes, smiling with teeth. “Gotta get up to speed, Cas.”

 

If there is a significance to this nightly allotment, Castiel should already know it, and so he does not ask.

 

Although the music doesn’t fit this dance, they take their positions and work through the motions at half-speed. This time, Castiel matches the back of Prince Dean’s hand with the back of his own, rather than greet him with a block, but by the loose grin on Prince Dean’s face, it’s clear he recalls the slip.

 

They work through the pattern four times, Castiel slowly working around in a circle. He orbits Prince Dean as the moon does a planet, and Prince Dean guides them in turn around an invisible sun.

 

“Full speed with a distraction,” Prince Dean tells him. “Ready?”

 

Castiel nods.

 

As they begin again, Prince Dean says, “I asked Sam what he interrupted last night. Turns out, it wasn’t a question about, what was it, the rise of demons coinciding with the disappearance of angels. Not exactly, anyway.”

 

Castiel recalls the woman with the shining purple mask from the previous night. “What was it instead?” Castiel asks, focusing on the motions of his arms and the placement of his feet.

 

“She was going to say there aren’t any angels because they all turned into demons.”

  


 

In Castiel’s preparation for this mission, there were trials. In these trials, there was the final test of motionless wings.

 

Beforehand, Balthazar came to him, held onto him, and apologized in advance. He did the same for Hannah.

 

During, Balthazar came to them, stood before them, and let loose with seven hundred years of grief. Hannah stood at Castiel’s side, similarly tested. Behind Balthazar, Uriel stood in support for them both, wings flattened hard against his back.

 

Balthazar ranted at Uriel’s capture, at Anna’s foolhardy rescue mission. At Castiel for not stopping her, for not going with her, for not reporting her immediately. At himself for never knowing she was gone until Uriel returned without her, hands sticky from holding in his own blood and grace.

 

He raged against the twisted wreckage of their sister that had returned in her stead. Her blank eyes and flat voice, the murder lurking beneath her every motion, broken and shattered and beyond their hope of healing.

 

“Michael put her down, _and it was our fault_ ,” Balthazar told him, told all of them, and he was crying. He was sobbing as Castiel had never before seen him. Uriel turned away, wings arched high in the anger born of guilt. Hannah stood and watched and shuddered and at last broke, wrapping her wings around herself.

 

Not once, not a single time, did Castiel move.

 

Anna wouldn’t have wanted him to.

  
  


“An angel can’t become a demon,” Castiel replies, voice steady. “A demon is born from the corruption of life force, not magic.” He matches Prince Dean step for step while he explains. Though magic can buttress a life force, it cannot wholly replace it. Where there is a life force, there can be healing. Where there is not, there can only be necromancy.

 

Where there is a life force, a demon will torture a new demon into existence. Where there is not, there can only be torture.

 

Castiel explains this, and he explains it well. He remembers the dance and the motions, and he performs them. He does not hesitate. He does not falter.

 

He does not understand when Prince Dean catches him by the hands and asks, “What’s wrong?”

 

Castiel shakes his head, but Prince Dean does not let go. They do not dance. They only stand, because Prince Dean bids him to stand.

 

“Cas,” he says, as if this is Castiel’s name and not an Enochian word in its own right.

 

“We can talk about something else,” Castiel tells him.

 

His voice firm, his voice quiet, Prince Dean asks, “Was Anna possessed before she died?”

 

Castiel closes his eyes, and his wings do not move.

 

Distantly, he realizes he will have to thank his brother.

 

“She wasn’t turned,” he says. “She wasn’t herself when… when she died. But she wasn’t turned.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Prince Dean says.

 

Castiel forces his eyes open. He forces himself to look up into Prince Dean’s eyes.

 

“We need to get on top of this blood sigil bullshit,” Prince Dean continues, apparently to himself. “If we got everyone warded… Shit, Cas, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It was a long time ago,” Castiel says, and the words fit strangely in his mouth. It is, somehow, incredibly, the first time he has lied, truly lied to this man. It was decades before their banishment and yet.

 

And yet.

 

“We’re gonna work on it,” Prince Dean promises him. “Sam wanted to instate a mandatory policy, like that wouldn’t incite mass panic. ‘The government is trying to control me with blood magic!’ All that hysteria. Once I got him to see reason, he started working on Dad, but there’s getting funding for schools, and then there’s getting schools running, and then there’s getting kids into them. Just so people will know what’s good for them. And after that, there’s still everyone else.”

 

Prince Dean rubs at his face, continuing, “I wish I was joking, but I think me and the knights have done more to spread the anti-possession tattoo just by exercising shirtless. I’m serious. Shirtless warm-ups wherever we hunt, as long as it’s not freezing out. They see every man with a tattoo on his chest and every woman with a tattoo on her shoulder, and they just want to join in. That was Donna’s idea, moving the tattoo to the shoulder so people could see it even when the ladies are binding their chests. Just a little change, make it more visible, and suddenly we’ve got all the little girls clamoring for their tattoos too.”

 

It’s a lovely distraction, the way Prince Dean speaks. A distraction all the more lovely for being deliberate.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Prince Dean stops.

 

Castiel holds his arms out, the way he should have to Balthazar, and Prince Dean gathers him close. One hand settles on his wing. The other wraps around the back of his head. Prince Dean’s chest is solid against his own. Against Prince Dean’s empty back, Castiel’s hands don’t know what to do. There is nowhere to hold or settle. He runs his palms down stunted shoulder blades, unable to prevent his curiosity even now.

 

“She was protecting our brother Uriel,” Castiel says. “She couldn’t have been stopped, not by anyone. And it happened well before you were hunting, I’m certain.”

 

“I don’t know, I started pretty young,” Prince Dean replies. His jaw shifts pleasantly against Castiel’s cheek while he speaks. “I was squiring for Bobby when I was twelve.”

 

It is, perhaps, one of the most endearing things Castiel has ever heard. “You’re twenty-nine?” Castiel asks, as if he needs to ask.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It was earlier than that,” Castiel understates. “But thank you. For caring.”

 

Prince Dean fists one hand in Castiel’s feathers, and Castiel does not react. A moment later, Prince Dean releases his grip and attempts to smooth him back down, gently, as if there was a chance Castiel hadn’t noticed the tugging. “Is, uh. Uriel? Is he all right?”

 

“I think he blames himself,” Castiel says. “He used to always have the best jokes.”

 

Prince Dean keeps trying to stroke his feathers down. Castiel eases him back and Prince Dean hurriedly stops.

 

“My apologies,” Castiel says. “We were supposed to be dancing.”

 

“You were supposed to be having a good time,” Prince Dean replies. “Which means I definitely fucked up first.”

 

The movement of Castiel’s lips is almost reflexive. He smiles to the point of his lips parting, and he covers his mouth with his hand rather than risk ending that smile incorrectly.

 

As he seems so fixated on doing, Prince Dean catches Castiel’s hand again and pulls it down. “Is it just you and Uriel?”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “Hannah and Balthazar as well.”

 

“Hannah and Anna, huh? Matching.”

 

“And Castiel and Uriel,” Castiel agrees. “Balthazar’s always been the odd one out, though only in terms of names.” As a flamewing, Anna had been the outlier in appearance, red all the way through. Though Castiel is cinder and Uriel an iridescent purple, the exteriors of their wings are almost a matching black. In the shade, Balthazar’s outer sandy brown can be mistaken for Hannah’s deeper walnut. Their true colors are gold and bronze, respectively, the pair as similar from below as above.

 

Prince Dean pulls away toward the pitcher and glasses, keeping one arm stretched out back toward Castiel. He fills the glasses again and returns to press one into Castiel’s hands. “What are they like?”

 

“Balthazar is droll,” Castiel answers. “But not as droll as he thinks he is.” He looks down and touches his top layer. “This is his shirt.”

 

Prince Dean’s lips quirk. “He let you cut holes in his fancy shirt?”

 

Castiel verbally sidesteps. “He owed me. And this is Hannah’s belt. She’s very forthright.”

 

“Did Uriel send along something?”

 

“Only advice,” Castiel replies, “as his boots didn’t fit.”

 

Prince Dean grins wider. “Y’know,” he says, “I don’t have a sister.”

 

Castiel looks at him. “Really,” he deadpans.

 

Laughing, Prince Dean says, “Shut up, I wasn’t finished.”

 

Eyes on the prince, Castiel sips his water.

 

“After Sam, Mom and Dad didn’t want to risk having another kid,” Prince Dean says. “So, technically no sister, but then Charlie happened.”

 

“Queen Charlene of Moondoor?”

 

“Yeah, Charlie. We were almost engaged for a little while there, and let me tell you, that was pretty awkward.”

 

“Because she would only wed a woman?” Castiel guesses.

 

“No, I wish. I was seven, they handed me an infant, and somebody said she was my future wife.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Yeah, I almost dropped her. She doesn’t remember a bit of it, but Sam’s still never going to let either of us live it down.”

 

Castiel sets his political knowledge against that time frame. “If you could still have manifested as a mage at that age, why would you have been engaged to a crown princess?”

 

Prince Dean shakes his head. “Don’t you know? Sam had already manifested by then. He wasn’t even three. I mean, I know siblings don’t always manifest at the same age, but four years later is too big of a gap. All my mage cousins? Last one sneaked in right before his tenth birthday, but they were all nine. So Sam pushing three and me turning seven, it was pretty clear it was too late.”

 

“Turning seven,” Castiel repeats.

 

“Yeah,” Prince Dean says, shrugging. “Maybe he manifested earlier, but we didn’t notice until my birthday.” His eyes go distant, though his mouth remains gently quirked. “Kid wouldn’t stop complaining how unfair it was that I got two birthdays in a row. One of my tutors tried to sit him down and explain calendars and how years work, but, I mean, the kid was two. It took a while to figure out. We were too busy being surprised he’d remembered me having a birthday the year before. It wasn’t until he started calling out every single one of my presents before I opened them that we knew something was up.”

 

That slim trace of a smile fades.

 

“So that’s why Dad figured he could marry me off to Charlie. Mom put her foot down, though. A Knight Prince is for the people, not for political alliances. She said Dad had to stop treating me like the Mage Prince I was supposed to be.”

 

“Supposed to be,” Castiel repeats.

 

“I mean, she didn’t _say_ that,” Prince Dean quickly corrects. “But that’s, y’know. What she meant.”

 

What a strange thing, to have one’s rank change. Castiel tilts his head, considering the concept. He wonders if humans are where Uriel first learned of the notion, for all Uriel disdains so many of their short-lived efforts.

 

Prince Dean shrugs again and lightens his tone. “Anyway, with the whole engagement thing, it turned out Charlie’s only into women anyway, and it’s worked out for the best. She and the wife even worked out this surrogate father system, so all of their kids will be somebody’s firstborn. Every last one of their kids will be able to see the fae. That’s the kind of smart you’d expect from a mage with a double talent, you know?”

 

Castiel frowns, trying to lower his eyebrows in much the way Prince Dean had earlier. “Magehood doesn’t bestow intelligence.”

 

“Says a mage who is way smarter than me,” Prince Dean replies.

 

“I think you underestimate yourself,” Castiel tells him, but nevertheless backs off at signs of obstinacy.

 

“I know my limits,” Prince Dean says. “Though, y’know, we used to joke around about it. When Charlie manifested, we gave her so much crap. Sam made up this vision about having seen her secretly stealing my talent. He thought it was so unfair she got two.” He laughs a little, then sighs. “Yeah, we made her cry pretty bad.”

 

“Which talent were you, then?” Castiel asks. “The lightning or the metal?”

 

“Oh, the metal,” Prince Dean answers without pausing for thought. “I would’ve been pulling swords out of anything big enough to use.”

 

Castiel finishes his water and sets it back down on the table. Prince Dean knocks his own glass back before doing the same. A drop escapes the corner of his mouth and makes it as far as his jaw before Prince Dean wipes it away.

 

“Gotta get my swords the old-fashioned way,” he concludes with a shrug. “Anyway. You ready to try that again?”

 

Castiel nods. They move together, and Castiel has forgotten none of the motions. Prince Dean lets out a low whistle and praises him, as if this is an impressive rate of learning. He has a few more corrections but otherwise pronounces Castiel ready for the party below. Castiel is sure to wipe his forehead one last time before replacing his mask. Eyes lingering on Castiel, Prince Dean does the same.

 

“Hold on,” Prince Dean says. He inspects the lay of Castiel’s mask. He brushes Castiel’s hair down in the back. He tries, very briefly, to preen Castiel’s scapular feathers. Thankfully, he gives up after the shortest of attempts.

 

“Am I presentable?” Castiel asks.

 

“Oh yeah,” Prince Dean replies. “C’mon, let’s go present you.”

  
  
  


 

When they head down, it is already well past nine, encroaching ever closer to ten. Castiel contemplates his excuses to bow out by eleven-thirty, and it seems plausible he might plead fatigue. How long can most humans dance before becoming exhausted? Prince Dean must be more physically capable than others, and Castiel could be reasonably expected to grow tired more quickly than him.

 

Downstairs, they step back over the rope barrier, Castiel with much greater ease than before. His balance is improving, and he and Prince Dean move together well. Their entrance attracts more than a few looks, some of these mere glances, some longer, thinly disguised stares.

 

Prince Dean meets the attention with a ready smile, and his hand comes to rest over where Castiel’s wings meet low on his back. The touch is a claim, possession and protection both, and Castiel permits himself to be owned. There is an unexpected safety in it, long forgotten: though he serves Raphael, he hasn’t belonged to anyone since Michael.

 

This is not the same, but he has nothing else to liken it to. This is not the claim of a commander upon a promising young soldier. This is something very much else, and Castiel permits himself to like it.

 

“Have we started a rumor?” Castiel asks, watching so many humans pretend not to watch him.

 

“Nothing compared to the one we’re about to start,” Prince Dean murmurs, leaning in as they walk. His hand slips lower, closer to where Castiel’s back curves into his rear, and Prince Dean curls his fingers around one of his secondary flight feathers. He holds on gently, like a fledgling seeking attention. “Probably should’ve asked if you were all right with that.”

 

“Do they think you took me upstairs to bed me?” Castiel asks, equally quiet. Even walking together has become a kind of dance, Prince Dean guiding, Castiel no longer looking where he’s going.

 

Prince Dean’s nostrils flare as he inhales. Perhaps, beneath his mask, his eyebrows rise.

 

Castiel tilts his head. “Is there another kind of rumor I don’t know about?”

 

“No, that’s, uh.” Prince Dean clears his throat. “That’s pretty much it.”

 

Castiel nods, satisfied.

 

“You’re all right with that?” Prince Dean checks, as if Castiel had indicated otherwise. Perhaps he had, in some human way.

 

For Prince Dean’s benefit, Castiel pretends to consider before reporting his already established conclusion. “A perceived claim should mean fewer interruptions.”

 

Prince Dean squeezes his flight feather. “You worried about those? Interruptions.”

 

“I would endure them,” Castiel replies. “I understand you have obligations.”

 

“Not tonight,” Prince Dean promises. He flattens his hand and presses, hard enough for Castiel to feel it in the small of his back as well as his wings. “C’mon, courtyard. You don’t get to talk like that and not let me hold you.”

 

“All right,” Castiel agrees.

 

Prince Dean grins at him, bright and sharp, until Castiel smiles back, and Castiel is left wondering exactly how he was talking. Whatever he’s done, he should clearly endeavor to do it again.

 

On their path to the courtyard doors, they pass the inaccurate tapestry. Prince Dean’s hand keeps stroking down his wings as they walk, and Castiel refuses to relax into the touch. “Oh, right,” Prince Dean says. “I got a question.”

 

“I may not have an answer,” Castiel warns.

 

“Fair enough,” Prince Dean says. “Why was – hold on.” There’s a crowd leading out into the courtyard, but, head held high, Prince Dean steps forward all the same. His posture changes. Although already steady, his steps grow long and sure. He presses forward and the crowd presses away. His hand on Castiel turns from an accompaniment to a gesture of display.

 

They walk out under the night sky, and Castiel does not look up. He looks to Prince Dean instead, who looks back just as firmly. In front of them, everyone moves. They part like mist before a flame, before the fire inherent in the human beside him.

 

Music plays and couples dance. Never pausing, Prince Dean takes him by the hand and leads him to the center of the whirls and motion. Bright fabric flashes. Jewels and embroidery gleam. Precious metals glint on fingers and necklines and wrists. A grand show of wealth, an unrelenting onslaught of items which are new and humans who breathe free air, and Prince Dean walks him to the center of the whirlwind in the unwavering faith they would never be hit. Once there, with the dancers in motion around them, Prince Dean steps close against him and smiles.

 

“There we go,” he says, as if having done nothing more remarkable than opening a door.

 

Castiel wraps his arm around Prince Dean’s waist. Prince Dean strokes his thumb across Castiel’s other hand, firmly held and never released.

 

With that, they begin to dance.

 

They step and turn and step again, and Prince Dean no longer moves as a teacher. The perfunctory distance of his instruction vanishes, and what remains are his hands and his arms and his eyes. Though Castiel is in the position to lead, Prince Dean continues to guide him, and this is no lesson. It is no battle, or struggle, or contest of will. It is motion and trust, and Castiel holds to him tight through one spin into the next. They swoop without use of wings, each orbiting the other.

 

The night air caresses their shoulders while the heat of the party presses lower. Prince Dean squeezes their clasped hands and pulls out from under Castiel’s arm, turning the once so they stand in tandem, move in tandem. Castiel repeats the basic steps until Prince Dean squeezes again, and Castiel winds him back in. Castiel catches him closer than before, arm firmer about Prince Dean’s back. Their legs brush, knees almost knocking. They ease each other back in unison, Prince Dean’s hand hot on his shoulder, Castiel’s dragging low across the dip of Prince Dean’s spine.

 

“We do that again, you spin counter-clockwise,” Prince Dean instructs, voice low, eyes bright.

 

“Yes,” Castiel says, the one word that will fit in his mouth.

 

The music swells until it flies. They push apart once more, hands separating into emptiness, and they turn, three deliberate spins rolling down a line until they can again meet. Castiel’s steps are smaller, and Prince Dean orbits him to compensate. They come back together, this time at a proper distance, and though there is space just enough for their legs and motion, it seems a chasm too wide.

 

For the fleeting moments their faces are close, the seriousness of Prince Dean’s face is itself somehow a smile. “Step out, and we turn together.”

 

Again, Castiel’s hand must leave his back. They each step out to the side, an arm extended before the other, and they each press forward into the other’s forearm with a gentle hand on that proffered wrist. They turn, each slowly drawing the other back in, as if pulled by gravity itself. They repeat the motion on the other side and turn the other way.

 

This time, Prince Dean’s extended arm darts below Castiel’s answering hand. Prince Dean’s palm doesn’t merely alight on Castiel’s chest; it presses there. His arm is a hard line of contact softened only by the lush slide of his jacket. The position of his hand would be a scandal with a female partner, but, gazing into the unwavering focus of Prince Dean’s eyes, Castiel feels it no less acutely.

 

When they draw each other back in, Prince Dean’s hand slides from chest to side, to very nearly between his wing and back. He adjusts, moving his hand higher, and Castiel finds himself led into a turn. He turns halfway and is caught, the prince’s chest brushing against his wings. His hold is so light.

 

“You got this,” Prince Dean murmurs behind his ear. “Such a fast learner, Cas, you’re amazing.”

 

They stay like this for a time, Castiel moving blindly, Prince Dean holding both his hands from behind. Despite his tight hold on his wings, he is outspread beyond what his bent arms would imply, held open by a light touch beneath his fingers. Prince Dean guides their movement, dips them one way and the other. He turns them and leads him, and when Prince Dean bears him forward, it feels as if Prince Dean might replace his wings.

 

The music changes, breaking from a long, rolling repetition and signaling the impending close of this dance.

 

Prince Dean releases one of his hands with a gentle push. Castiel turns and Prince Dean lifts their still-joined hands high, guiding their arms over Castiel’s head. His other hand catches at Castiel’s waist, a firm pressure to align their bodies. In lowering their joined hands, Castiel must release Dean’s body, and they return to a variation on their starting position as the music ends, each more ready to begin than he is to stop.

 

Around them, the party-goers make noise in return for the musicians. Around them, there are murmurs and nods and louder pieces of speech. Above them, the sky stretches up forever.

 

Before him, there is a smiling human man who draws him close and fits their masked foreheads together. Prince Dean breathes heavily, and Castiel is certain to match.

 

“Two more?” Castiel asks.

 

“Two more,” Prince Dean agrees, and he pets the side of Castiel’s face.

 

Castiel catches his hand and pulls. Laughing softly at nothing, Prince Dean follows.

 

Once back inside the castle hall, Castiel realizes his mistake. He tries to adjust, to relocate his hand to Prince Dean’s elbow, but Prince Dean catches at his fingers. “Nope, too late,” Prince Dean tells him, pulling Castiel along in turn. “You’re holding my hand now.”

 

There is a greater significance to this than the elbow hold, that much is clear. “On what occasion am I permitted to let go?”

 

“You have to use the bathroom?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then yeah, you’re stuck,” Prince Dean tells him, squeezing tight. He shifts his grip after, palm shifting against palm, to thread their fingers together. He lifts their joined hands as they walk and brushes his lips against the back of Castiel’s hand. “How’s this for getting rid of interruptions?”

 

“It seems to be working.” And attracting looks instead. He sees them in his periphery while watching the motions of Prince Dean’s mouth.

 

Prince Dean lowers their hands only to swing them, drawing yet more eyes. He keeps glancing at Castiel as they walk, even more so than he did on their tour last night.

 

“You said you had a question,” Castiel belatedly reminds him.

 

“Did I?” Prince Dean asks. “Oh, right.”

 

Castiel tilts his head politely.

 

“Something I used to wonder about that tapestry. The Severing of Lucifer and all that.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why?” Prince Dean asks.

 

Castiel successfully frowns with his mouth. “He created demons to stage an assault upon Heaven.”

 

“Yeah, so why stop at cutting his wings off?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“Oh.” A much more reasonable question. “Do you have any theories?” Castiel asks in return.

 

“There are those stories about his brothers not wanting to kill him,” Prince Dean begins. “Which would make more sense if Lucifer didn’t kill two of those brothers himself. I get attempted mercy and all, I do, but once anyone starts killing off the rest of your family, that just seems stupid.”

 

“Think of it as a hunt,” Castiel suggests. “Why would you cut a flying opponent’s wings off?”

 

“To ground him,” Prince Dean answers immediately. “But that would just be the first step.”

 

Castiel nods. “What makes you think it wasn’t?”

 

Prince Dean looks at him and says, “Huh.”

 

“Any species that attacks from above doesn’t do well, grounded.” He doesn’t add that angels fight with their wings, both offensively and as shields. He mustn’t seem too well-informed.

 

“And, what, he was rescued by his demons?” Prince Dean asks. “He’s supposed to have gotten away and all.”

 

When the demon onslaught came, they’d tried to save Michael. Gabriel had already bled out in a burst of light, and Michael died with his brother’s wings already burnt into his side. Castiel hadn’t reached him in time, and even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered, the wounds too grave.

 

“It’s a theory,” Castiel says, tone neutral.

 

“Makes more sense than other theories I’ve heard,” Prince Dean says.

 

They enter the great hall and retrieve drinks. Castiel holds both glasses while Prince Dean loads a small plate with smaller pastries. Very seriously, he says to Castiel, “These are my favorite.” He holds one between his fingers and lifts it before Castiel’s face. When Castiel says nothing, does nothing, Prince Dean lowers his hand only slightly. “Too forward?” he asks, and Castiel knows him well enough now to see a dare in this.

 

“No,” Castiel says.

 

Prince Dean holds the pastry before Castiel’s mouth, and this time, Castiel understands what to do. He opens his mouth and Prince Dean presses the small morsel inside, thumb sticky against Castiel’s bottom lip.

 

The pastry is soft on the bottom and flaky on top. In the middle, the wet relief of soft fruit counteracts the dryness of the crust. At least one of the flavors is some variation on _sweet_ , Castiel is almost certain, but he lacks the vocabulary. Though he would prefer the fruit with the crust, he closes his eyes to indicate enjoyment, in the hopes that a gesture of trust might translate thus.

 

He swallows. He opens his eyes and nods. When more seems expected, he lifts one of the glasses in his hands and offers it in return. Not for Prince Dean to take from him, but to drink from his hand.

 

The corners of Prince Dean’s mouth move in a way Castiel has grown to associate with success. He covers Castiel’s hand with his own and sips, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s. When Castiel retrieves his hand, he leaves the glass behind, but Prince Dean watches him all the same.

 

Castiel reminds himself that Prince Dean likes rude. He likes bold.

 

Castiel steals another pastry directly from Prince Dean’s plate and pops it into his own mouth.

 

Prince Dean throws back his head and laughs, sudden and sharp and joyful. That singular burst ends as quickly as it began. Prince Dean leans in close, the distance Castiel’s siblings might stand when engaged in deep, private discussion. This is not the same.

 

“You’re something else, Cas, you know that?”

 

The only member of his species in this world, Castiel nods. He finishes chewing and swallows. “These are very good,” he says. The taste is pleasant enough to endure the sensation of matter against his teeth, as if he’d flown through a bog with his mouth open. Distantly, above the music and murmur, he hears the clock tower strike ten.

 

Prince Dean shakes his head at him, but it isn’t disagreement. Strange. “Even tiny pie is still pie.” He tells Castiel of the towns and villages he’s visited during his hunts, the inns and restaurants and even homes he’s dined in. He speaks highly of the roadhouse system run by the mother of one of his knights. He asks Castiel about the food at the university, and Castiel responds as if confused by Prince Dean’s need to ask, for Prince Samuel has told him in the past: they even discussed this last night. That seems a passable response. They finish their drinks and discard the empty plate.

 

Castiel takes Prince Dean’s hand again. “Shall we?”

 

“Next song,” Prince Dean replies. “This one’s about to wrap up.”

 

Castiel nods, but doesn’t try to release Prince Dean’s hand. He’s learned that particular lesson. Instead, he threads their fingers together the way Prince Dean seems to like. They stand together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting, and Castiel keeps waiting for wings to brush against his own. The touch will never, can never come, and yet the expectation won’t fade.

 

Prince Dean makes a quiet noise.

 

Castiel looks up at him.

 

“I was just thinking,” Prince Dean explains. “About your banishment theory.”

 

Castiel tilts his head.

 

Prince Dean’s lips quirk. “Imagine going through all that trouble, cutting off an archangel’s wings to restrain him, and then you all wind up banished to the same place together anyway.”

 

Castiel blinks. “He was banished with the demons. A reciprocal banishment pushes two equal forces in opposite directions. It–”

 

“Yeah, but banishment spells are specific,” Prince Dean interrupts. “You don’t get to bunch a set of different things in together. You gave me the rundown on the magic differences between angels and demons a couple hours ago, I don’t forget stuff that quickly. Even if Lucifer put some of his own magic into the archdemons, they would still qualify as something else. All the fire my dad makes is full of his magic, but you don’t get rid of _him_ if you dispel his flame spells.” Briefly, he closes one of his eyes behind his mask. “Trust me, we check that kind of thing. So if Lucifer went anywhere, he would have gone with the angels.”

 

Castiel wasn’t involved with the drafting of the spell tablets. Capturing Archdemon Alistair was pivotal in their understanding of demonic magic, but that is as far as Castiel was truly involved in the process. There’s a great deal he doesn’t know about the intricacies of the banishment. He reassures himself, yet knows he’ll have questions for Uriel after tonight.

 

“I thought I was taking tonight off,” Castiel chooses to say. “Unless you would rather instigate a debate I’d need to fetch books for.”

 

“Somebody save me, he’s got citations.”

 

Castiel makes himself smile with his mouth.

 

With his free hand, Prince Dean strokes his fingers up the inside of Castiel’s arm. “Ready for more?”

 

“Citations?”

 

Prince Dean moves his eyes in a quick circle. “Okay, enough of that.” As the song changes, he pulls Castiel forward.

 

This time, they keep closer to the edge of the dancing. Castiel gathers him close, and almost immediately, they’re swooping to the side. Prince Dean keeps them on the periphery for the sake of space, not to have it, but to use it, inhabit it, soar through it.

 

Stepping double-time in places, there is as much joy in the speed as there is risk. The turns are tighter, harder, and the dead weight of Castiel’s wings threatens to drag him off his feet without a balancing flap to counteract the motion. He takes to spinning Prince Dean instead and turning in place to draw him back. They join. They separate for the sake of joining once more.

 

They run out of space for great, sweeping steps and turns, as even the strength of Prince Dean’s presence cannot overcome the press of moving bodies crowding them toward the tables. Their motions grow more contained, though no less controlled.

 

“We’re doing this every night,” Prince Dean says into his ear, his breath shiver-hot.

 

“But tomorrow night,” Castiel reminds him, containing a sudden alarm.

 

Verbally, Prince Dean pauses before replying. Physically, his movements remain as smooth as ever. “Maybe I’m confident in your research speed.”

 

Castiel forces himself calm. “You did promise,” he says. He’d agreed to this night for the sake of that promise. “I need to–”

 

“Cas,” Prince Dean calls him. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

 

Castiel tries to spin him out, a bid for distance and a moment for thought, but Prince Dean takes the motion in a way Castiel hasn’t seen before. Their arms rise over Castiel’s head and then Prince Dean is behind him, one hand curved around his left hip. Right hand in right hand, Prince Dean holds him closer than he had in their previous dance, or in the entirety of their lesson. The prince’s jacket rubs at Castiel’s wings unpleasantly.

 

“I’ve got you,” Prince Dean continues. “It’ll work out.”

 

“You can’t take care of me,” Castiel tells a prince.

 

“I can if you let me,” he answers. His jacket continues to rub at Castiel’s wings. His legs brush against Castiel’s flight feathers. His hands are hotter than his breath, than the line of him at Castiel’s back, and Castiel can’t seem to stop trapping himself.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” he says, hard, and Prince Dean turns him back around. Not knowing where else to go, Castiel’s arm returns to its place around Prince Dean’s waist.

 

“I’m not asking you not to be scared,” Prince Dean tells him, eyes serious behind his mask. “I’m just asking you to trust me.”

 

“I’ve known you three days,” Castiel says.

 

“Feels like longer.”

 

“But it hasn’t been,” Castiel insists.

 

Prince Dean looks away. He licks his lips and exhales, his shoulders joining in for that motion.

 

“It was going to be a surprise,” Prince Dean says. “We had a look through some old logbooks – all right, Sam did – and there’s some stuff from a raid on a demon stronghold. Centuries old.”

 

“From a demon stronghold,” Castiel repeats. It might be a lead, but it won’t be the tablet. If the tablet had ever fallen into demon hands, it would have been used already. They would have ended the banishment of their older brethren long ago, and this world would bear obvious scars from that outpouring. “What is it?”

 

“There’s a tablet,” Prince Dean says.

 

Somehow, Castiel does not stumble.

 

Instead, he says, “In what color stone?”

 

“A dark blue-ish black,” Prince Dean answers. “About the size of a dinner plate, with some language nobody recognizes.”

 

It can’t be.

 

It could be, but it can’t be.

 

But Seer Shurley did say it was here.

 

In terms of clarity, verbal prophecies are typically cryptic, filtered heavily by a seer’s mind, but there is something almost uncannily straight-forward in the message _In Winchester Castle lies the key to the return of angels, and to the return of Lucifer’s might; beware, for demons know._ Not for the first time, Castiel wishes he’d had the chance to communicate with the seer directly. Perhaps this tablet is a stepping stone to his true goal.

 

For now, Castiel stops himself from wondering and instead says, “That sounds promising.”

 

“Right?” Prince Dean says. “So relax. I told you, I got you.”

 

They dance on as if Prince Dean seeks to prove it.

 

His mind too full of questions to keep silent, Castiel says, “You looked on my behalf.”

 

Prince Dean manages to make a shrug look graceful. “Sam did.” He spins Castiel one way and then the other, arms raised and Castiel moving beneath them, his wings tucked tight, and it is almost reassuring to have his body reflect his mind.

 

“Why?” Castiel dares to ask.

 

“’Cause he’s a nerd.”

 

“Dean.”

 

Prince Dean ducks his head, horns lowering. “’Cause he wants me to be happy.” He looks at Castiel and he doesn’t stop.

 

Not knowing what he’s meant to say, Castiel says something else. “I don’t know how to do this.”

 

“This morning, you didn’t know how to dance,” Prince Dean reminds him, and he spins Castiel again before catching him in a loose embrace. His voice might be gentle. It might be tentative. Castiel needs a larger frame of reference to be certain. “Think it’s down to whether you want to learn.”

 

“It’s been three days,” Castiel repeats.

 

“Do you want more than three days?” Prince Dean asks.

 

Castiel holds his gaze and says, “Yes.”

 

There is no other answer.

 

Prince Dean smiles as slow and wide as the spread of his arms. “That’s a good start.”

 

“I’m not sure what you want from me,” Castiel says.

 

“I want you to have a good time tonight,” Prince Dean tells him. He pushes one of Castiel’s hands and pulls the other, and they spin apart and back to each other. “Relax a little. Well, learn how to relax, _then_ relax a little. Do you like dancing? It seems like you like the dancing.”

 

“Very much,” Castiel replies.

 

“Yeah?” And Prince Dean smiles so much more. “Then we’re gonna dance and eat stupidly tiny excuses for pie, and if you really, really want, you can whip out some of those citations you love so much. And you’re not gonna worry about the rest of it. Just for tonight.”

 

“I can try,” Castiel says. If Prince Dean’s promise truly remains intact, he can afford it.

 

“That’s all I’m asking,” Prince Dean says, and he seems to believe it.

 

“Are you always like this?” Castiel risks asking.

 

Horns glinting, Prince Dean shakes his head. “Haven’t been for a long while, Cas. But I know what potential feels like. And I know what passing up on it can do to you.”

 

There are no more spins as the song enters its final stage. There is no more separating, or undue speed, or any feat of notable difficulty. There is simply Castiel’s arm about Prince Dean’s waist, Prince Dean’s hand upon his shoulder, and a palm resting against another palm.

 

They hold each other, and when they at last stop moving, they are still holding each other.

 

“Another break?” Castiel suggests.

 

“Yeah,” Prince Dean says, and he lets all of Castiel go except for his hand.

 

Seeing other couples abandon the dancing area for the benches, Castiel asks, “Might we sit down?” He permits himself to sag slightly, a motion more unnatural than the position of his wings. He hasn’t been physically tired in centuries, not since Archdemon Alistair.

 

Looking at him with a somehow firmer focus, Prince Dean at last permits Castiel to hold his arm. He moves Castiel’s hand himself and doesn’t let go even once Castiel grips his upper arm. “Right, you’re not used to this. You were holding up so well, I didn’t think – here.”

 

He guides Castiel to the end of one of the tables, clearly inviting him to lean. Three people on the bench they approach realize they have somewhere else to be, and the space clears. Rather than step over the bench, Castiel approaches the end of it from the side. He shuffles forward, astride it, and sits straddling, the end of the bench pushing only lightly at his flight feathers.

 

With another kind of smile, Prince Dean shakes his head and copies Castiel, throwing a leg over the bench and sitting in front of him. Their knees touch, the space between their laps forming a large diamond. Castiel leans slightly to the side, his arm on the table, to indicate fatigue. Prince Dean lays his arm on the table as well, and Castiel turns his palm up before Prince Dean even finishes reaching.

 

“Didn’t mean to push you so hard,” Prince Dean apologizes. “You all right?”

 

“I may need to retire early,” Castiel replies, “while I can still walk.” He catches at Prince Dean’s fingers, that light, brushing touch inspecting his palm.

 

Prince Dean lets himself be caught. “We can sit more.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I promised three,” he says. “I don’t go back on my word, and certainly not with you.” Although Prince Dean claims Castiel will have his research night tomorrow, Castiel still speaks to establish an obligation.

 

“I wouldn’t want to break you,” Prince Dean replies.

 

“Worse than you have tried and failed,” Castiel answers plainly.

 

Prince Dean frowns. “You just point ‘em out, Cas.”

 

Not for the first time tonight, Castiel tells him, “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

 

“You don’t,” Prince Dean agrees, rubbing his thumb across Castiel’s wrist, just beneath his sleeve. It tickles. “But maybe you could let me anyway, just a little.”

 

Castiel considers this. “Just a little,” he allows. He lifts his fingers and slips them beneath Prince Dean’s cuff in return. It’s a tight fit with these narrow human sleeves. Prince Dean’s smile returns, as slow and hot and lingering as his touch.

 

“It’s great you want things on your own merit,” Prince Dean says after a long moment of quiet. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for that. But I’ve seen enough to know high-born stupidity gets farther than low-born smarts.” Seated at a table of aristocrats, he says this without trying to conceal his words.

 

“Is that why so many of your knights are low-born?” Castiel asks, pushing the conversation away from himself.

 

Prince Dean shrugs with one shoulder. “You want resourceful people, you find the people without the resources. Really, we just started picking up people who showed promise around our hunts, and it’s worked out. That’s how Dad got Bobby and Rufus, that’s how Bobby got Jody and Jody got Donna, and all down the line. We’ve still got our legacies, like Jo. Her dad was something else, let me tell you.”

 

“Please do,” Castiel says, and they talk about the knights and their hunts. Their knees stay pressed together on each side of the bench, though under the table, Prince Dean’s leg shifts. He presses forward as they speak, leaning closer to catch Castiel’s words when those around them begin to converse more loudly. A gradual change, it is eventually the inside of Prince Dean’s thigh that presses against Castiel’s knee. They don’t so much hold hands as clasp each other’s forearms. Every so often, someone tries to speak with Prince Dean, but the attempts never last long.

 

Castiel leans harder onto the table. He tilts his head the same way, keeping it low, both curious and deferential. The angle bares the side of his neck somewhat, the effect no doubt enhanced by the dipping chest of Balthazar’s borrowed shirt atop his own.

 

Time passes, too much, and Castiel is keenly aware that it tolled ten o’clock some time ago.

 

At a pause in the conversation, Castiel straightens, pushing his shoulders back. Attentive, Prince Dean immediately changes track, asking, “Ready for three?”

 

Castiel nods. He stands, using a hand on the table to push himself up. Prince Dean easily steps back over the bench and Castiel allows himself to be steadied, as if it is the weight of his wings, not their stiffness, that wears him down.

 

“This is an interchanging dance,” Castiel seeks to confirm. He wraps his arm around Prince Dean’s as if for additional help, which seems to please him greatly.

 

“Yeah,” Prince Dean says, cutting them a path out of the hall. “Still remember the steps?”

 

“I do, but that is for one specific dance.”

 

“And?” Prince Dean asks. “That’s the one dance you need.”

 

“All four partners need to perform the same one, to a suitable song,” Castiel continues. “Presumably everyone dancing performs the same one.”

 

“That’s right,” Prince Dean says, “and I’ve got it covered. Have a little faith, Cas.”

 

“In the orchestra?” Castiel asks.

 

Prince Dean laughs. “Fine, in them too. They might not be knights, but they still take orders.”

 

“How much of tonight did you prepare?”

 

“Not much,” Prince Dean replies. “Told Jo to tell you where to find me, had some water brought up to the library.” He smiles in a way that seems to touch Castiel’s face. “Still can’t believe we spent over an hour and a half up there, and you never wandered off to look at the books.”

 

“They didn’t hold my interest.” There had been no tablets on the shelves. Still, he hadn’t had the chance to check the display cases, and he ought to be thorough, even while having a lead for tomorrow night. “Though I wouldn’t mind returning upstairs with you after this.”

 

Prince Dean inhales deeply, chest rising. “For the books.”

 

“And a quieter place to sit,” Castiel adds, keeping with his role as a tired human.

 

“People will talk,” Prince Dean warns.

 

“People already are.” That much has been clear all night.

 

A few steps more, then Prince Dean asks, “Do you mind?”

 

“Do you?” Castiel counters. “I’m not particularly suited for the public eye.”

 

“Cas,” Prince Dean says, “unless the public eye is blind, it thinks you’re gorgeous.”

 

“Somehow, I doubt that’s what they’re saying.”

 

“So you do mind.”

 

“I’m aware, not upset,” Castiel says. Humans put great stock in breeding behaviors. Copulation between certain members of the species results in reproduction in addition to, or perhaps in lieu of, pleasure. Beyond this, Castiel is uncertain of the specifics.

 

He’ll ask Balthazar, once he’s finished speaking to Uriel about the banishment spell. Hannah might know something as well. Her information, should she have it, would likely be a much calmer version of Balthazar’s, and therefore more practical. Still, there remains the irksome risk that all of it might be outdated, Hannah’s and Balthazar’s both.

 

“If it’s too much to handle,” Prince Dean begins, his mouth dropping close to Castiel’s ear. “If, uh.” He swallows. “Last time. My last time. People talking. It was too much for her. And I get that.”

 

Castiel looks up to him, their faces close. Again, they walk with the coordination of a dance, with trusting steps and arms entwined. It is very pleasant, and Castiel will have to teach these human dances to his siblings when his mission is over.

 

“Just let me know,” Prince Dean tells him. “If it gets too uncomfortable.”

 

“I’m very comfortable,” Castiel says, and he surprises himself to mean it, cramped wings and all. At the pleasure clear on Prince Dean’s face, Castiel seeks to add more. “I’m glad you sought my company, though I’m still not certain why.”

 

“’Cause you made no sense,” Prince Dean replies. “The showiest wallflower, staring at the building and ignoring the people.” His eyes travel lower. “Plus the rest of you.”

 

“You make no sense either,” Castiel says, because this is both bold and rude.

 

“Guess that’s why we’re both so interesting.”

 

It’s a fair point, and Castiel nods.

 

They reach the throne room, but there is no music when they enter. For some reason, Prince Dean grins wider at this and guides Castiel through the milling throng. He seems to know precisely where he’s going, even before Castiel catches the first glimpse of gold-tipped horns.

 

At the base of a stone pillar wrapped in long, shining ribbons, Prince Samuel stands in a small circle of conversing party-goers. A much shorter woman stands beside him, her blue mask in the style of fae fashion. Castiel recognizes her vaguely from the previous night, or he thinks he does. With wingless bodies and ever-changing outfits, humans are absurdly difficult to keep track of one night to the next. The consistency of the masks is as much a blessing as their presence is a hindrance. In any case, he’s almost certain this particular woman had been dancing with Prince Dean last night when Castiel first approached him.

 

All gathered are listening to the man on the woman’s other side. A man of reasonable height, his mask is the sleek semblance of a wolf’s head. Beneath it, his hair is a sandy blond and worn short, not in the current mage style. He speaks with a smooth and quiet voice, and he gestures just as gracefully with hands sheathed in brown leather gloves, each fingertip glittering darkly with the suggestion of claws.

 

Prince Dean moves to his brother’s right, and he brings Castiel with him. The circle opens and closes around them just as quickly. The man in the wolf mask pauses in his story to bow, and the rest of the circle, save Prince Samuel, follows. Looking to Prince Samuel, Castiel aims his bow in the Mage Prince’s direction. Prince Samuel smiles back before wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

 

“I gave the musicians their break ten minutes ago,” Prince Samuel informs Prince Dean. “Whenever you’re ready.”

 

“We can give them fifteen,” Prince Dean replies. “I think introductions are in order. Sam, you’ve already met Castiel. Castiel, this is Lady Jessica, healer mage and baroness.”

 

Castiel bows to the blonde woman, though less deeply than he had to the prince.

 

Prince Samuel indicates the man in the wolf mask. “And this–”

 

The man in the wolf mask steps forward smoothly, removing his right glove. “Nicholas,” the man supplies. He offers neither surname nor title, merely his hand in a traditional shake. It’s a deliberate lowering of his own status, forgoing both mention of his family name and the need for Castiel to reveal his own lack of one.

 

Castiel takes his hand firmly, and Nicholas shows his teeth. “Seraph Castiel, I presume. Have you come to slay archdemons?”

 

“Should the opportunity arise,” Castiel responds.

 

“Then you would cause an even greater stir than you already have,” Nicholas says with what might be a quiet sort of kindness. He squeezes Castiel’s hand with both of his before releasing, and the remainder of the circle introduces themselves in turn.

 

Following Nicholas’ example, they all use given names over titles, and Castiel has an undeniable sense of social advancement over the night previous. No one else offers their hand, each expecting a slight bow on Castiel’s part, but the change remains palpable. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Prince Samuel exchanging a smile with Nicholas and granting him a pleased nod.

 

With introductions finished, Castiel shifts his weight to stand fractionally closer to Prince Dean. Noticing immediately, Prince Dean sets his hand where Castiel’s wings overlap behind his waist. Around them, the conversation resumes, Lady Jessica prompting Nicholas with Prince Samuel looking on attentively.

 

Very soon, there is a shift in the crowd as the musicians return to their places. Nicholas concludes his tale of goings on at the Royal Hospital. Prince Samuel leans down to murmur something to Lady Jessica. She nods back up at him and stands on tiptoe to respond into his ear. They smile at each other before moving apart. Lady Jessica approaches one of the women in their circle, whereas Prince Samuel pulls Nicholas closer with a glance. The pair of men look at Prince Dean and Castiel.

 

“Ready?” Prince Dean asks.

 

Castiel nods as seemingly the entire assembled throng takes their positions, a strange civilian formation. Civilians with an exception, Castiel notes as Prince Dean guides him into place.

 

“It’ll be me, Nick, Sam, and back to me,” Prince Dean tells him. “Then it’s library time.”

 

Castiel smiles and he risks showing teeth. Prince Dean smiles back. They stand at attention before each other, the brothers side-by-side and Castiel beside Nicholas. As the music starts, they each turn their bodies to their right and extend a hand toward their initial partner. Their hands meet palm to palm before their eyes, and then they begin to move in full.

 

They step. They turn. Castiel keeps his eyes on Prince Dean, and though they barely touch, they move together. Right hands then left hands, meeting and parting. They step. They turn. They perform as they practiced, and there is something grievously dissatisfying at this display of coordinated distance being their final dance.

 

Prince Dean nods out the beats leading up to the first transition. The changeover occurs smoothly, the brothers readily falling into step together and Nicholas keeping every motion deliberate. Prince Samuel says something to provoke a laugh from his brother, and Castiel is careful not to look away from his new partner.

 

The leather of Nicholas’ gloves is soft, a strange contrast from Prince Dean’s roughened palms. Nicholas meets him motion to motion, and something inside Castiel grows unnerved. Nicholas is a placid force, the calm one might expect of a healer. Composed, his only signs of distraction are the occasional glance to Castiel’s wings where they rise over his shoulders.

 

“It’s like stepping into another world, isn’t it?” Nicholas comments. They step. They turn.

 

“It’s very grand,” Castiel agrees. Right hands then left hands, meeting and parting.

 

“A welcome change, I’m sure.” The sound of his voice seems distantly familiar, but all these wingless humans look so similar.

 

“It is.” They step. They turn.

 

“Will you be staying until the wedding?” Nicholas asks.

 

“No. A prior obligation.”

 

Nicholas smiles faintly, shaking his head. “Such a shame.”

 

Their portion concludes. Again, they exchange partners. Again, Castiel holds out his arm, and, again, the back of his hand is met with the back of another.

 

This time, something _pulls_.

 

Eyes wide, Castiel jerks his hand away. He fumbles the motion in returning but does not have time to touch again before they turn apart.

 

Drawing closer, unfaltering in his own steps, Prince Samuel assures him, “You had it right, it’s back of the hand first.”

 

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll remember.” Prepared this time, he holds still through the next touch, and that pull is just as strong. Not a pull away from Castiel, but a pull _within_. It slips somewhere not under Castiel’s skin but adjacent to it, simmering within the magic that is his life force, and Castiel knows what this is.

 

The knight with the fireball, the queen’s difficult pregnancy: Castiel’s theory was right.

 

The ache of his wings vanishes. The fatigue of stress and subterfuge falls from him. Though the pull stops each time skin contact is severed, the surge of energy remains.

 

Showing no signs of noticing, Prince Samuel asks, “Is my brother behaving himself?” Where Prince Dean guided him and Nicholas met him, Prince Samuel anticipates him.

 

“It is my understanding that your brother is behaving _as_ himself, Your Highness,” Castiel replies.

 

Prince Samuel laughs. “I’m sure he is.”

 

Right hands then left hands, meeting and parting. The pull stops but the potential of it remains as long as the touch lasts. Under his skin, Castiel thrums, as refreshed as if he’d spent a week meditating. He watches the Mage Prince for corresponding signs of fatigue, but Prince Samuel must be strong, composed, or both.

 

“You should stay for the wedding,” Prince Samuel tells him. “We still have a seat for Seer Shurley and no one to put in it.”

 

“I’m afraid I’m obligated elsewhere, Your Highness,” Castiel replies.

 

They step. They turn.

 

“Has Dean already tried to get you out of that?” Prince Samuel asks.

 

“No,” Castiel says, “but he has complained.”

 

Prince Samuel laughs again, and the vast store of magic beneath human skin becomes that much more accessible.

 

Still faintly buzzing with it, Castiel makes the final change of partner. Prince Dean returns to him with a smile unrivaled by even his brother’s laughter. By some shared, unspoken thought, Prince Dean and Castiel both repeat Castiel’s mistake from their lesson, greeting each other not with the backs of their hands but with a mutual forearm block.

 

If anything, Prince Dean’s smile only grows. Somehow, there is no menace in the gleam of his teeth. It matches the light of his eyes too well.

 

Armed with new knowledge and what feels like an excess of energy, Castiel grounds himself through one touch and the next. He stays calm, composed, and he knows he could hold his wings still for hours more of dancing. Holding the rest of himself back is now the concern.

 

Right hands then left hands, meeting and parting. They step. They turn.

 

The music slows, and they slow with it. They stand back in their initial square formation, arms out to their first partner.

 

Palms set together in the air, Castiel and Prince Dean look at each other over their aligned fingertips. As the song fades into its conclusion, Prince Dean shifts his hand. This isn’t part of the dance, not a part Prince Dean taught him, but Castiel understands all the same. Prince Dean might be the one to thread their fingers, but Castiel is the one to squeeze tight.

 

Around them, there is more hand-striking for the musicians, only a quick round of noise. Prince Dean tugs Castiel closer and they escape from the center of the dancing area before the next song can begin. Looking back, Prince Dean waves over his shoulder at his brother. Prince Samuel grins and nods to them both.

 

“You did it,” Prince Dean tells him proudly. “Now let’s get you sitting down before your legs fall off.”

 

Brimming over with energy, Castiel tries to remember what tiredness looks like. He wants to fly. He wants to plummet, headfirst to the ground, and snap up at the last possible second. He wants to pull Prince Dean back to the courtyard and dance with him there.

 

Instead, he nods slowly, heavily. He holds tight to Prince Dean’s arm and leans. He marvels at the strangeness of supporting himself that way, rather than wrapping a wing over Prince Dean’s shoulders. His arms feel more important like this.

 

When they reach the staircase, he’s careful to need more help in stepping over the rope barrier. As they climb, he keeps his progress slow.

 

“Almost there,” Prince Dean promises, as if Castiel could somehow have forgotten the way.

 

They each open one of the tall doors to the library and move through the center of the doorway together. Inside, Prince Dean guides him to one of the few chairs without supports for the arms. Its back is still high, enough that leaning against it would be uncomfortable even with mobility in his wings.

 

Prince Dean pulls out a second wooden chair without arms, and he sits sideways. Castiel nods thickly and copies, perching when his body demands flight or sparring or any manner of fast physical exertion.

 

Then Prince Dean takes Castiel’s hand again, and he is tethered. The sensation of being grounded ought to be a threat, but being grounded by a single fragile touch is something new. Though Castiel’s mind still races, though his body still cries for motion, his spirit calms. A commanding presence is its own form of magic, mage or not.

 

They rest their arms on the backs of the chairs, and their hands hang in between. Their knees brush, then bump, then press firmly, legs interlaced like their fingers. Castiel leans harder against the chair back, his cheek resting upon his arm. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Prince Dean removes his horned mask and sets it upon the table. There are imprints on his face, and sweat darkens his hair.

 

Castiel thinks of knowledge, and confidences, and trust.

 

He comes to a conclusion.

 

Through the doors to the balcony, he hears both music and the tolling of the hour. Eleven. He has enough time.

 

He lifts his cheek from his right arm. “There’s–”

 

“Did you–”

 

They both stop.

 

“There’s what?” Prince Dean asks. His voice is as steady and soothing as the motions of his thumb against the back of Castiel’s hand.

 

Castiel shakes his head. “You first,” he says, and he sets his head back onto his arm. He rolls his other shoulder slightly, as if settling in.

 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Prince Dean asks. “Before I wore you out, at least.”

 

“I did,” Castiel replies. “Though I would have appreciated slightly more warning before dancing with both princes of the nation in front of the king and queen.”

 

Prince Dean winces. “When you put it that way…” He squeezes Castiel’s hand. “You did good, Cas. So good. You didn’t even look nervous.” He looks at Castiel a little longer, and though this ought to be a continuation of his gaze, it feels different, like the start of a new sentence. “You never look nervous. The composure on you, man.”

 

Deliberately, Castiel twitches the side of his mouth into a smile.

 

“So I guess that’s why I gotta ask if you liked it,” Prince Dean continues. “The dancing. With me.” He shifts in his chair and what their knees do is too gentle to be called jostling. “You did, right?”

 

“Far more than I expected to. I hadn’t taken an interest until tonight.”

 

“In dancing,” Prince Dean says.

 

“In dancing,” Castiel needlessly confirms. He makes another small smile. “When I return home, I’m going to teach Balthazar. Then we’ll combine forces on Uriel, which should be enough to corner Hannah.”

 

Prince Dean smiles wide, teeth showing, eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re a bit of a tactician, there.”

 

“How else does one capture an archdemon?” Castiel asks, and Prince Dean laughs.

 

“Fair point.” Prince Dean slouches lower in his chair, mirroring Castiel. “Really wiped you out, huh?”

 

“Capturing an archdemon is very difficult,” Castiel allows, uncertain where this joke is headed.

 

Prince Dean smiles again and shakes his head against his arm. “The dancing, smartass.”

 

“Is two hours considered a small amount?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t think he’s miscalculated.

 

“It was spread out,” Prince Dean argues. “After, uh. The first hour and a half. All right, fine, you win. You’re allowed to be tired.”

 

“I humbly thank you for your beneficence and magnanimity.”

 

“Such a smartass,” Prince Dean says, and this time, it sounds like an endearment.

 

“I’m going to rest a while, and then I think it best I return to my lodgings while I can still walk,” Castiel tells him.

 

“Cas, we got carriages,” Prince Dean replies. “You don’t have to walk.”

 

“These won’t fit into a carriage seat,” Castiel says, nodding toward his left wing.

 

“And if you hung onto the back like a coachman, you’d probably get blown off,” Prince Dean reasons. “We could have someone walk with you instead.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. After half an hour of sitting down, I’ll be much more awake.” The renewed energy of his grace might even out by then. He hadn’t felt particularly drained, but he knows now that he had forgotten what it is to be at full power.

 

“Half an hour, huh?”

 

“It would be a waste to leave sooner, regardless of my condition,” Castiel replies.

 

“Or you could stick around,” Prince Dean continues. “Stay here. I mean, not _here-_ here. In the palatial complex. You wouldn’t be anywhere near my bedroom, if you’re worried about that. Since people are already talking and all.”

 

“That offer is either very kind or very selfish,” Castiel notes.

 

“It can be both. I’ve got range like that.”

 

“It’s appreciated but unnecessary,” Castiel replies. Again, he turns his head to look back at his left wing. “There’s a certain amount of necessary processing and preparation I need to do, and I can’t do that here.”

 

“Hell of a spell, keeping those on like that,” Prince Dean praises.

 

Castiel gives him another smile. Prince Dean seems to like them greatly.

 

“How did you make those, anyway?” Prince Dean asks. “Griffin feathers, right?”

 

“There was something I was going to say,” Castiel reminds him. He straightens up in the attempt to convey the importance of this subject change.

 

“Yeah?” Prince Dean’s expression shifts. He sits up as well, but his grip on Castiel’s hand remains relaxed. “Something wrong?”

 

“Not ‘wrong,’ exactly,” Castiel says, coasting on an uncertain breeze. The degree of tension in Prince Dean’s hand is a better indicator of emotion than any of the motions of his face. “I believe I’ve discovered something I didn’t intend to, and I think you ought to know.”

 

By Castiel’s standards, the sudden neutrality of Prince Dean’s face ought to be a comfort, so similar to an angel’s, but the stiffness of his hand belies this. “What do you mean?”

 

“When we were dancing, I felt something unexpected when I touched your brother’s hand.”

 

Immediately, Prince Dean retracts his own hand. “You what.”

 

“It was not my intention to pry, and I have no intentions of telling anyone about your brother’s second talent,” Castiel promises, committed to this gamble. “I understand why it would be regarded as a state secret, and I would strongly caution him to wear gloves in the future.”

 

Prince Dean stares at him. His mouth is open, and not in a way Castiel recognizes.

 

“Is that acceptable?” Castiel asks.

 

It clearly isn’t. He’s overstepped.

 

“What are you talking about?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“Prince Samuel’s second magical talent.”

 

“Sam doesn’t have two talents,” Prince Dean says. “ _Charlie_ has two talents.”

 

“Having two talents is rare, but it does happen more than once each generation,” Castiel replies. “I imagine it would be even likelier in families prone to marrying mages, such as yours.”

 

“Sam doesn’t have two talents,” Prince Dean repeats. “What are you talking about?”

 

Castiel tilts his head, keeping it low. “You don’t know?”

 

“Cas, I’m telling you, Sam’s only got the visions,” Prince Dean insists.

 

“You told me that when you were returning from Moondoor, Dame Joanna conjured the largest fireball of her life when she should have been magically exhausted. You said she’d pushed your brother out of the way. Was she in direct skin contact at that time?”

 

Prince Dean frowns, but his gaze slips to the side. “He was drawing his sword. I ordered Jo to stop him. She… Yeah, she was pushing his hand back down.”

 

“And afterward, she had enough power to keep moving the carriage.”

 

Slowly, eyes distant, Prince Dean nods. “You think that was Sam.”

 

“I know it was,” Castiel says.

 

“You think he’s some sort of… magic enhancer? That’s not even a talent, Cas.”

 

“It used to be,” Castiel tells him. “It was dangerous enough that I’m not surprised it’s largely disappeared.”

 

Prince Dean rubs a hand across his brow, fingers spiking his sweat-dark hair. “What, like enhancing mages got wiped out because everyone felt threatened when the mages, I don’t know, backed a champion?”

 

“Your mother the Queen had a difficult pregnancy. The range of her magic grew vastly beyond the typical pregnancy boost, correct?”

 

“You’re saying Sam – No one manifests in the _womb_ , Cas!”

 

“All magical creatures do,” Castiel replies. “In womb or egg. But that applies to anyone or anything whose life force is connected to their magical energy. Consider it as less an active talent and more an inherent condition.”

 

“Life force and magic aren’t connected.”

 

“Not typically in humans, no,” Castiel agrees. “But there are exceptions. Before your brother was born, your mother was able to push her range as far as Moondoor, correct? Did she nearly miscarry after?”

 

Prince Dean’s face changes. Not in expression, but in hue. It drains out in one abrupt wave of ashen skin.

 

“Are you saying,” Prince Dean sounds out slowly, “that you think my mom nearly drew enough magic out of Sam to kill him?”

 

“Not intentionally,” Castiel assures him. “But it is one factor in the rarity of the talent.”

 

“When you said it was dangerous…”

 

“I meant to your brother, yes.”

 

Prince Dean pushes his chair back. He stands. He paces. His hands clench. He turns back to Castiel. “How sure are you?”

 

“About my knowledge of the talent, or your brother having it?”

 

“Both,” Prince Dean says.

 

“Moderately, and entirely,” Castiel answers. “Magically, I’m at full strength. It was… unexpected.”

 

Again, Prince Dean wipes at his face. “All right.” He looks at the library doors and back to Castiel. “All right. You could have led with that.”

 

“I told you I felt it when I touched his hand,” Castiel says. “That was the moment of transfer.”

 

Prince Dean stares at him hard before looking away. He makes a sound as small as it is awful. “Right. Yeah. So you’re all mojo’ed up, we’ve been forcing Jo to make fireballs she can’t cast for months, and Sam nearly wasn’t born. Anything else?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Will you sit back down?”

 

For a moment, Prince Dean doesn’t move.

 

When he does, it’s toward the doors.

 

“Dean?” Castiel asks. He stands.

 

“I’m getting Sam.”

 

“Wouldn’t that indicate a disturbance?” Castiel asks. It could certainly create one. The likelihood of leaving on time is decreasing by the moment. This was poorly embarked on, leaving revelations where he should be inspiring trust, and he must conclude it as quickly as he can. “Your brother is in no more danger now than he was an hour ago.”

 

“He should hear this himself.”

 

Castiel stands. He closes the distance between them and takes each of Prince Dean’s hands in his own. “You’ll alarm the guests.” When this garners no fruitful response, Castiel amends, “You’re alarming me.”

 

“ _I’m_ alarming you,” Prince Dean echoes. “I–” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. Castiel mimics the thumb rubbing motion Prince Dean uses so often himself. “All right, yeah. You tell me everything. Once everyone’s gone, I tell Sam, and anything I can’t tell him, you tell him tomorrow.”

 

“I’m not an expert,” Castiel hastens to tell him. “My knowledge is limited.”

 

“It’s more than I got,” Prince Dean says. He draws Castiel back to their seats. They sit, Prince Dean leaning sharply forward. “If he’s not just a seer, if he’s some kind of, what, enhancement mage, what are the risks?”

 

“Long ago, they were called ‘vessels,’” Castiel explains. “The danger of a vessel is that it can be emptied. Not simply of their stores of magic, but of their life force. That’s the danger of the two being linked.”

 

“Not reassuring me here, Cas.”

 

“But,” Castiel continues, “a human could only draw from your brother while actively using magic themselves, while fulfilling a transference condition.”

 

“Touch, breath, or blood,” Prince Dean recites. “Same hierarchy of transfer?”

 

“Touch is always least effective, blood always the most,” Castiel confirms. “There are certain constants to magic.”

 

“We can get him more gloves,” Prince Dean says, as if to himself. “He’s too tall to go around breathing on people, and no one gets at his blood before I spill theirs.” He nods a bit as he speaks. Then he looks at Castiel sharply. “You were actively using magic?”

 

Not for the first time tonight, Castiel points to his own wings.

 

“Wait, that’s an active spell?” Prince Dean asks, staring harder. “Not a set-it-and-forget-it?”

 

“It made the abrupt lack of mental exhaustion very noticeable,” Castiel replies, verbally sidestepping.

 

Dean doesn’t stop staring. “You held a spell this entire time.”

 

“I am very stubborn,” Castiel answers.

 

“While learning how to dance. For hours.”

 

“Dean, you’re getting sidetracked,” Castiel tells him.

 

Prince Dean shakes his head, his expression a strange variation on a smile that largely involves having his mouth open. He eventually closes it and settles back into his chair. Despite sitting with his arm along the back of his chair, he doesn’t take Castiel’s hand again.

 

Castiel shifts forward a few inches, but Prince Dean still doesn’t take it.

 

“You said a human would need to be spellcasting,” Prince Dean says. “You being weirdly specific, or do we have to worry about other stuff?”

 

“Any magical creature is constantly using magical energy, as that energy is their life force,” Castiel replies. “So any creature of that kind touching or touched by your brother would draw from him. I imagine it would stop once the creature was at full power, but a strong enough creature, sufficiently drained, could potentially draw your brother’s entire life force first.”

 

“So, like if an injured chimera bit him somehow,” Prince Dean reasons, “it would pull Sam’s life out of him to heal itself.”

 

“Meaning that attacking such a creature would only result in more harm to your brother, yes.”

 

Prince Dean turns quiet, his face a wordless storm.

 

“Ironically,” Castiel adds, “a bite deep enough to draw blood would make the transfer more efficient, and the chimera would have to draw less power.”

 

“Great,” Prince Dean says. “So vampires will top off their cups quickly.” He closes his eyes and touches his face again, leaving Castiel’s hand very much alone. “You’re sure Sam has this? That he’s a, uh, vessel?”

 

“I can see no other explanation.”

 

“Should be easy enough to test,” Prince Dean says, again in that tone where Castiel is no longer his conversational partner. “Seems like something we should have seen before, though.”

 

“Is your brother often touched?” Castiel asks.

 

“I mean, yeah,” Prince Dean answers immediately. “We were always roughhousing as kids. Then there was Bobby and Rufus teaching him how to fight and…” He stops. He closes his eyes. Exhaustion and tension both fill his shoulders, more than should fit. “None of us are mages. Dad never lets us close while he’s using fire, and Mom gets distracted if people touch her while she’s scrying. And it’s not like Jess has ever had to heal him. Shit. We really could have missed this.”

 

Castiel sits and waits for Prince Dean’s focus to return to him. It is some time coming.

 

Prince Dean swears softly. “When we were kids,” he says. “When Charlie was getting back at him for lying about visions, she zapped him pretty bad. Just poked him and zap! The way you get with socks on rugs, except stronger. She swore up and down for weeks she didn’t mean to do it that hard. Never did it again, at all. We gave her crap about her shitty control for _years_.”

 

Castiel keeps waiting. Minutes pass. Castiel considers getting up to inspect the items in the display cases, but he is meant to be tired. Also, that might be too rude even for Prince Dean.

 

At last, Prince Dean looks at him properly. “Do you know about any other talents like this? Easily overlooked stuff.”

 

“Do you have something in mind?” Castiel asks.

 

“No,” Prince Dean says. “I just…” He lowers his head. After a moment, his shoulders sag as well. “Look. Sam’s gonna be a great king. I know that. He really will be. But I…” He looks up at Castiel, a strange angle. “Is Sam the only one? Could I maybe be a vessel too?”

 

Castiel takes his hand.

 

Prince Dean watches him with wide eyes and a tight mouth. “Do you feel anything? Surge of magic, anything?”

 

“That’s not what I feel when I touch you,” Castiel replies.

 

Closing his eyes, Prince Dean squeezes his hand. “Tell me.”

 

“I feel warmth,” Castiel says. “Strength. Your tension. Sometimes your heartbeat. The marks of your training.” He trails a fingertip across these callouses, tracing the places where the hilt of a sword has become part of Dean’s palm. His own skin doesn’t work this way, and he feels a faint and wistful envy which he keeps to himself. Instead, he says, “A peculiarly strong sense of safety,” because this is also true.

 

“But that’s all,” Prince Dean says, again looking at him with a bowed head.

 

“That isn’t all,” Castiel promises. “But you are not a vessel.”

 

Prince Dean nods. “Yeah. I guess I knew that.” He sighs and straightens, and when Castiel doesn’t give him his hand back, he smiles weakly. “Thanks, Cas.”

 

Castiel makes him a smile in return, a small one.

 

“How do you know about all this?” Prince Dean asks, which is a reasonable question Castiel has prepared for.

 

“Very old stories,” Castiel answers. “Ones I don’t think you’d care to hear tonight.”

 

“More angel stuff?” Prince Dean asks, frowning. “What’s the connection?”

 

“You don’t believe in angels,” Castiel reminds him. “And I think you have enough practicalities to cope with, without enduring fiction.”

 

“You don’t think it’s fiction.”

 

“You do,” Castiel replies, “and that’s what’s important right now. Especially when you keep looking at the door behind me. You want to go to your brother.”

 

He hadn’t actually been before, but Prince Dean glances past him now. “That obvious, huh?”

 

“I have brothers,” Castiel says, thinking back to Uriel’s capture. “So in that sense, yes.”

 

Prince Dean rubs his thumb across Castiel’s knuckles. “I’ll walk you down, but I gotta see Sam. Sorry.”

 

“I’d do the same,” Castiel tells him.

 

They stand, hand still in hand. Prince Dean moves for the door, but Castiel does not. Prince Dean looks back at him.

 

“You’re forgetting something,” Castiel says.

 

Face unreadable, Prince Dean pauses before he steps back before Castiel. He looks down into Castiel’s eyes, his own a calm and serious green. His hand not in Castiel’s rises and touches Castiel where his shoulder becomes his neck, above the collars of both his shirts. His thumb supports Castiel’s jaw, and Castiel allows his chin to be lifted in willing supplication.

 

“Gonna kick myself for this later,” Prince Dean murmurs, “but I’m not feeling up for a good night kiss right now.”

 

Pointing with his eyes, Castiel tilts his face into Prince Dean’s hand. “I meant, your mask is on the table.”

 

Prince Dean’s eyes flick past him and return to his face. Tension suffuses his hand on Castiel’s neck, and the touch suffers for it.

 

“Is a good night embrace a suitable compromise?” Castiel asks, unaware of any so-called good night customs.

 

“Yeah,” Prince Dean says, voice low and thick. “Yeah, that would do it.”

 

Castiel sinks forward, sinks into him. He wraps his arms fairly high about Prince Dean’s back, forcing Prince Dean to put his arms about Castiel’s neck rather than over his wings. Castiel holds him, or the other way around. Their feet know where to stand, and their knees touch without jostling. The music still slipping in through the balcony doors bids them to sway, and it is not unlike dancing. The side of Prince Dean’s face presses against the side of Castiel’s mask, and it is almost satisfying.

 

Slowly, the loop of Castiel’s arms lowers. He settles his chin over Prince Dean’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and wills his feathers not to ruffle. He decides he likes good night customs.

 

Too conscious of the time, he loosens his hold. Prince Dean takes a moment longer, and even when he lets go, he doesn’t step back. Castiel does, retrieving Prince Dean’s mask and returning it to him. Prince Dean accepts it with a small groan.

 

“Wearing this thing makes me feel ridiculous,” he complains.

 

Wearing his own feathers on his face, Castiel says nothing.

 

Prince Dean replaces the mask upon his head, becoming no stranger a creature than he is without it. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I look very handsome,” Prince Dean prompts, licking his lips.

 

“You look very handsome,” Castiel replies, watching his mouth. Yes, he enjoys good night customs. “I’ll kiss you tomorrow.”

 

Prince Dean’s lips part. His nostrils flare. “Will you?”

 

“If that’s acceptable,” Castiel says, not wanting to overstep.

 

“Shit, Cas,” Prince Dean says, which is a strange kind of answer.

 

Uncertain of how to reply, Castiel instead shifts his grip on Prince Dean, moving from hand to elbow. “You were about to walk me downstairs.”

 

“Yeah,” Prince Dean says, still staring at Castiel’s mouth. He moves when Castiel moves him. “I mean, it’s after eleven. It’s practically tomorrow already.”

 

“You’re going to return to your brother,” Castiel tells him, “and I’m going to return to my lodgings.”

 

“And tomorrow, you’re going to kiss me.”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says.

 

“Y’know, I’ve thought about it,” Prince Dean says as they start down the stairs, “and I’ve reconsidered. A good night kiss would go over just fine. Don’t wait on my account.”

 

Castiel leans heavily on Prince Dean’s arm, which is difficult to do when his body feels so light and refreshed. “Tonight, I’d rather hold you again,” Castiel answers, because this is the closest they will come to dancing under his guise of exhaustion. “But that doesn’t seem very feasible on a staircase.”

 

Prince Dean swears in the same tone he’d sworn in before.

 

Curious, Castiel looks up at him, one hand on Prince Dean’s elbow, the other on the stone railing.

 

“You’re really something else, I hope you know that,” Prince Dean says.

 

“So are you,” Castiel answers, a private joke, and Prince Dean grins along all the same.

 

At the bottom of the stairs, Prince Dean helps him over the rope barrier one last time. There, Castiel releases him. After hours spent in almost continuous contact, the lack is jarring, cold, and unwanted.

 

“I gotta,” Prince Dean says, and he points in the direction of the throne room.

 

“Until tomorrow,” Castiel says.

 

“Yeah,” says Prince Dean, not moving.

 

The hour grows late, and so Castiel must move. He holds Prince Dean’s gaze before deliberately closing his eyes, and bows. He straightens, looks at Prince Dean with a small smile, and turns to go.

 

Every step of the way out, he half-expects, half-fears being called back. Once outside the castle, he checks behind himself even more than he looks to the sky. As on other nights, he’s not the only party-goer leaving this early, but it is far from a crowd. He walks with a small group at the periphery until he lags behind sufficiently to slip away. The rest continue on to their waiting carriages.

 

His wings help to hide him in the darkness, and he makes his way to the hedge maze without the help of light. At a quiet jog, he unerringly finds his way to the dead end that is, at midnight, no longer a dead end. By the time he reaches it, the portal is already open and waiting, the clock tower tolling out long strikes.

 

The previous two nights, he’d bid the sky a silent goodbye before forcing himself back into that containment. He’d breathed fresh air and pushed down memories of quiet suffering until he could withstand the thought of return.

 

Tonight, he has neither the time, nor the hesitation.

 

Tonight, feathers ruffled with thoughts of tomorrow, he simply jumps through.


	6. Fourth Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates back to Mondays after this, and Happy New Year, everybody.

In the morning, there is training, and for the first time in years, it involves Sam.

 

Almost rarer, King John is present. Bobby and Rufus eyed him before relocating the knights away from the mage training grounds. Alone among the knights, both senior and active, Bobby has been informed of Sam’s potential second talent. This wasn’t King John’s decision but Sam’s, made and performed without their father’s input.

 

Bobby had readily agreed to keep his mouth shut, and Dean is certain that only King John’s presence prevented Sam from getting a gruff lecture from Bobby about doing the same.

 

For today’s test of yesterday’s revelations, they have Sam, they have King John, and they have Jo. Once the three are set up in the mage area, Bobby retreats, bringing Dean with him.

 

There, in the otherwise unoccupied viewing area, they find Queen Mary.

 

They look at each other and they don’t say anything. Most of what has to be said, already has been. Much of it happened around three in the morning, and as it is now seven, no one here feels terribly cheerful.

 

“Care for a seat, Your Majesty?” Bobby asks.

 

There are folding ones back in the barracks. Bobby would have to leave to fetch it, and thus miss the test.

 

Dean knows his mother knows this.

 

“No, thank you, Bobby,” Queen Mary says.

 

In front of them, past the stone wall and enchanted glass barrier, the three mages stand in a line, two tall royals framing a short knight. To better recreate the incident from their return from Moondoor, no one has told Jo what’s happening. Along with the rest of the vacated knights, she doubtlessly thinks this is a personal lesson from the king and fellow fire mage. Sam’s presence beside them is slightly more difficult to explain.

 

After perhaps half a minute of watching the three silently converse, Dean sees Jo fire her best two-handed blast. If King John weren’t there, it might even be called impressive. Still, though her stance is impeccable and the pressure is on, the flame is the same maximum size they’ve been getting out of her for months.

 

Next come her best one-handed blasts, using her right hand and then her left. The fireball from the right is half the size of her two-handed blast, the fireball from the left somewhat smaller.

 

With each spell, Bobby nods, seemingly to himself, muttering “Normal” at the sight of each. Queen Mary nods in turn and makes no fuss of this commentary for her benefit.

 

The moment of truth arrives.

 

Sam turns to Jo and holds out his hand. She looks up at him, and even at this distance, Dean knows her confusion.

 

King John says something, and Jo immediately takes hold of Sam’s hand. She readies her stance again, adjusting with that hold, and fires another blast with her right hand.

 

The fireball hurtles itself forward. It explodes outward, roaring. Solid in her stance, Jo startles but doesn’t stagger; beside her, Sam stumbles backward.

 

The moment Sam’s hand leaves hers, half the fireball dissipates, but Dean is already out from behind the shelter and running.

 

“Dean, get back!” his father orders, even as he slaps down his hands in mid-air, forcing the remaining fire to snuff itself out on the flagstones.

 

Later, Dean will blame the roar of the flame for his insubordination, if his father asks, which he will. Later, he’ll say he couldn’t hear. Now, he races to his brother, catches him by the shoulders, and keeps him upright.

 

“Sam? Sammy?” His voice is too loud in his own ears.

 

Eyes rounder than the moon, Sam staggers under his hands, laughing. “Did you _see_ that? Dean, did you _see_ that?”

 

“That wasn’t me,” Jo says, because she’s smart like that.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says again, beaming.

 

“What was that?” Jo asks.

 

“Dean, get back behind the barrier,” King John orders.

 

Immediately, determination replaces the joy on Sam’s face. He grips Dean’s shoulder. “Dad, it’s as safe out here for him as it is for me. I’m not immune to flame either.”

 

“Your Majesty, may I ask what’s going on?” Jo gently interrupts, deferring in the way Sam refuses to.

 

“I can boost magic,” Sam tells her, his grin creeping back in the moment he looks away from their father. “I have a second talent.”

 

Jo looks between Sam and King John, and then she looks at Dean. She doesn’t say it aloud, but Dean hears it anyway: he pushed her for _months_ , and it was somehow Sam all along?

 

“At least the training improved your technique,” Dean tells her.

 

“Enough to control the power my son can push you to, perhaps,” King John notes. Then: “Dean, I told you to go back to your mother.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean answers. He doesn’t bow out of respect, only to free himself from Sam’s grip, but he still bows.

 

“I want Dean here,” Sam tells their father. “It’s easier with him here.”

 

“Training isn’t meant to be easy,” King John states, and that is that.

 

Dean returns to the observation shelter. Behind him, he knows the bitchface Sam is suppressing, just as he knows the exact shade of polite neutrality Jo’s painted across her features.

 

“That was quick,” Queen Mary says once Dean returns to her and Bobby. “I thought they might last half an hour this time.”

 

“Ever consider changing that royal animal to a ram?” Bobby asks.

 

“I wouldn’t want to encourage them,” Queen Mary says.

 

“Only matters if you think they’d listen,” Dean mutters.

 

Another blast nearly drowns him out entirely. This time, Sam keeps his feet and Jo’s inferno keeps its shape. King John watches with his hands at the ready, ever anticipating the moment when he has to take control, but Jo’s technique proves flawless.

 

Behind the safety of enchanted glass, they watch huge flares of flame tighten into fierce blue ribbons, into blazing white threads of pure heat. The very air over the mage training grounds wavers and distorts.

 

Even without hearing his father’s commands, Dean can predict them. Here, Jo must be trying to draw power from Sam without his cooperation. Here, Sam is trying to force it through her. That one, they were definitely striving to neither push nor draw; it’s the closest to Jo’s normal levels. Predicting what must come next, Dean sticks his fingers in his ears and nods at his mother and Bobby to follow.

 

The roar is tremendous.

 

Sam must _push_. Jo must _pull_.

 

Because this.

 

This.

 

All else was mere sparks against tinder.

 

His eyes sting. They burn and water, and he squints harder at the three black shapes against the blue-white flare. The shape on the right has both hands raised, raised and moving. The shape in the middle melds with the tall shape on the left.

 

They’re long past the point Jo can sustain on her own. Her unaided breaking point came and went minutes ago, especially at inferno levels. And yet they keep going. And yet it grows _stronger_.

 

The fire begins to bend, to move. King John twists his hands, shaping the magical fire Jo creates, she the force, he the control. It’s a feat Dean has only seen before on a minor scale, though of course he knows the story of his father stealing the fire away from a dragon itself. The superior mage can always wrest control of their element.

 

Dean bites his lip and unplugs his ears to shield his eyes, and he waits for Sam to do it. For Sam to push too hard, too hot, to overwhelm their father just because he can.

 

Beside him, his mother leans close to the glass, and he sees the fear in her eyes too.

 

Dean reaches out, and Mary takes his hand the moment he brushes her fingers. They hold tight.

 

“Will we know when he starts to hurt himself?” she asks.

 

Dean doesn’t know. “He’ll know,” he says instead.

 

Minutes later, an eternity of waiting, the fire lessens. Weakens.

 

Mary tightens her grip on his hand, perhaps tethering him in place, perhaps forcing herself still.

 

Jo’s hand stops emitting fire. Together, she and King John silence the remaining flames, pressing them down into blackened flagstones.

 

The air rings with silence. It burns, eviscerating the dew of early May.

 

Jo and Sam unclasp their hands. She looks up for her king’s approval and receives it in a gentle hand upon her shoulder. After, King John reaches for Sam. He’s pulling Sam close, embracing him. He’s ruffling Sam’s long, mage-style hair. He’s holding Sam up as Sam sags into him.

 

Dean can’t breathe.

 

“Hey,” Mary says.

 

Dean looks down into her eyes and he twitches his mouth into a grin. “That was _awesome_.”

 

Mary looks back with a tightness around her eyes. She turns to Bobby. “I think Sam could use that chair now.”

 

“Right you are, Your Majesty,” Bobby says, eyeing them both as well as the tableau beyond. He bows with just his head, little more than a perfunctory nod, and leaves them.

 

Before releasing Dean’s hand, Mary tells him, her head and voice both lowered, “I need you on my side.”

 

“Of course,” Dean says. He doesn’t say it won’t help.

 

They let go, their hands and fears at all points hidden behind the stone portion of the barrier. Dean comes around the side first and stops, standing at attention.

 

“Permission to approach, sir!” he calls out properly.

 

“Granted!” King John responds.

 

Dean approaches. All three are sweaty and a little sooty, but somehow not that much worse than Jo usually is after her typical magic practice. Each of their faces shine with sweat, Sam worse than the rest.

 

“Dame Joanna, report your condition,” Dean orders, focusing entirely on her.

 

Already at attention, Jo lifts her chin as she replies, “Fit and ready, Your Highness.”

 

“Is your magic exhausted?”

 

“My magic is brimming, Your Highness,” Jo answers. “I feel like I have more energy than when I woke up.”

 

More or less what Cas said. Dean nods. He pivots. “Sam. Same questions.”

 

It’s stretching protocol, but the training grounds are Dean’s domain. Even King John pretends to defer to Bobby here.

 

“Fit and ready for a break,” Sam answers. Where Jo has the heavy breathing of exhilaration, Sam has the shallow pants of a fatigued runner. Is that the flush of the heat fading, or is Sam paler than he should be? “Not sure what exhausting my magic feels like, but this might be it.”

 

“More of a stretch than those visions, then,” King John says. He clasps Sam on the shoulder. “We’ll get you trained up, son.”

 

Without turning to look at her, Dean can feel his mother about to speak.

 

“Dad’s right,” Dean preempts, speaking to Sam. “We’ll make sure no one can draw from you unless you let them.”

 

“Draw _from?_ ” Jo repeats, eyes wide. She takes a renewed interest in Sam’s visible exhaustion before remembering herself. “Sir.”

 

“He’s not boosting, he’s contributing,” Dean explains to Jo. Speaking to a third party has always helped, in that King John knows he makes the family look disjointed if he outright corrects Dean. “That’s why we have to lock this down and make sure no one can use Sam’s power except for Sam.”

 

Jo’s gaze shifts, presumably locking eyes with Queen Mary behind Dean.

 

“I know you can keep a secret, Joanna,” Queen Mary says.

 

Jo bows deeply before turning to King John. “Your Majesty, I thank you for your personal interest in my training. The other knights will know that you discovered my mental block, which I can only surpass with the memory of the Mage Prince being in mortal danger. Perhaps someday I will be able to cast so well without His Highness present, but until then, I deeply appreciate you both taking the time to train me.”

 

King John listens to her with a small smile. “Just so, Dame Joanna. You are dismissed for the time being.”

 

“Your Majesty.” Jo bows deeply. She catches Dean’s eye as she departs, and he nods.

 

At last, Queen Mary comes forward. As always, it is propriety, not hesitancy, that ever held her back. “How are you, really?” She pulls a handkerchief out of her light jacket and proceeds to wipe at Sam’s face.

 

“Mom, I’m fine,” Sam says without hope of stopping her.

 

“I already have one sooty man, I don’t need two,” she says. “How are you feeling, physically? You’re not used to prolonged magic drain, I don’t think you know which symptoms are which. Start describing, Sam.”

 

Sam looks at Dean instead of their father.

 

“I’m assuming you went that hard to find Sam’s limit,” Dean says to King John. “That should’ve been enough to put Dame Joanna’s spellwork out of commission for days.”

 

“The first step in training any mage is finding their limit,” King John replies.

 

“Not this kind,” Mary says. Her arm wraps around Sam, half an act of protectiveness, half an alliance of body language. She lowers her voice, their seeming solitude no guarantee they won’t be overheard. “John, if we hit our limits, our powers stop. If Sam hits his limit, _he_ stops.”

 

“We need to find the line between using his magic and using his life,” King John says. His voice lowers as well, but only into a defensive crouch. “That’s what we’re trying to do. He needs to know how far he can push himself.”

 

“You shouldn’t be getting anywhere _near_ that line,” Queen Mary says. “What happens if this damages him? What happens if a healer draws from him and ends up making it worse? We don’t know what will happen, John.”

 

“Mom, Dad, I’m fine,” Sam says, sweaty and sooty and trying not to wobble.

 

“He’s fine,” King John tells Queen Mary.

 

“He’s exhausted,” Queen Mary shoots back.

 

“We all are,” Dean announces at a louder than normal volume. “Did anyone get more than three hours of sleep last night? I didn’t. At least you two got to sit down, me and Sammy were dancing all night.”

 

“Sam and I,” their parents correct him together.

 

“Right,” Dean says. “We’ve still got two more nights left, so I’m thinking birthday boy here should rest up, yeah?”

 

“I wouldn’t mind getting more than three hours,” Sam adds.

 

Queen Mary reins herself in first. “I think we all should.” Her arm around Sam shifts to better support him. “Let’s head on up.”

 

“Mom, I’m turning twenty-five tomorrow,” Sam complains. “I don’t need my parents to put me to bed.”

 

“That’s why your brother’s doing it instead,” Dean tells him. He holds out his arm and beckons. “C’mon, Sammy.”

 

“Turning twenty-five,” Sam repeats. “Stop calling me Sammy.” He comes with Dean all the same.

 

“Yes sir, Your Royal Samness, sir.”

 

Dean doesn’t look back to see if this amuses their parents. It has in the past, and that’s enough to bet on.

 

As they walk back through the training grounds, Dean mocks his brother for the knights to hear. What kind of prince can’t dance all night and still get up in the morning? Sam whines about his three hours sleep and Dean threatens a brotherly contest of running laps, or perhaps sparring. More than one of the knights suppresses a smirk, and Sam’s obviously deteriorated condition doesn’t draw much in the way of concerned or curious looks.

 

Bobby approaches, wooden folding chair in hand. He sees them heading in, brothers ahead, parents behind, and responds by simply setting down the chair in a prime spot to watch the training session. He waits until the King and Queen pass, bowing to both, before he sits. He does shoot a look at Dean, the sort that promises a conversation later, but at least the thought of this one doesn’t fill Dean with dread.

 

Sometimes, the walk back into the castle proper is a long, long walk within the palatial complex. From the training grounds, they pass the garden with its large hedge maze. They enter the castle through the smaller door set into the greater doors in the entryway. Then come the stairs, followed by more stairs, and slightly more stairs after that.

 

By the time they reach Sam’s bedchambers, Sam is much too pale beneath the remaining smudges of soot. Perhaps this is why their parents follow them every step of the way, right up until Sam’s door. At this point, Sam rallies enough to ask them to wait for Dean outside. He and Dean enter alone, and the moment the thick wooden door closes behind them, Sam’s arm comes down hard over Dean’s shoulders.

 

“That was too much,” he says, sagging heavily. He keeps his mouth close to Dean’s ear, his voice quiet against the risk of their parents listening. “Dean, I don’t want to do that again.”

 

“You won’t have to,” Dean promises. “I’ll get Jo on it, and you two can work out some hand signals.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “It was fine at first. It was _awesome_ at first. Seeing that. But that, it wasn’t me, Dean.”

 

Through the small sitting room, Dean helps him toward the en suite bathroom to wash his face and scrub off the soot. While Sam practically sticks his head under the sink tap, Dean sits on the toilet cover, quietly admiring the plumbing he’ll have to do without in the coming months, once he’s back out hunting. It’s a vague sort of distraction, and it doesn’t last long enough.

 

Sam towels off his face and his hair, carelessly turning white cloth gray. He holds the towel with trembling hands.

 

“Y’know,” Dean says, “not gonna lie, me and Mom thought you were going to try to out fire mage Dad. Make a blast too big for even him to take control of. Maybe you are mature enough for twenty-five.”

 

Shaking his head, Sam sets the towel down on the marble counter. “Dean, I tried.”

 

“Well, you’re only twenty-four,” Dean jokes.

 

“Dean,” Sam says in the tone that means _Take me seriously_. “I mean it. I tried, and I couldn’t. I wasn’t in control. At all. It’s like I wasn’t doing it. No, it’s not _like_ that, it _was_ that.”

 

Dean sits up straighter. Then, realizing he maybe shouldn’t be sitting on a closed toilet for this conversation, he stands. “C’mon. Bedclothes. Talk while you change.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes but staggers after him out the door to the bedroom, kicking out of his shoes. He pulls fresh bedclothes out of the drawer in the base of his wardrobe, and Dean turns his back to inspect his brother’s neat array of books and assorted belongings.

 

Sam’s horned mask still lies on his desk from the night before. Books both new and ancient enough to creak line his shelves. Some shelves have small drawings, some blown glass baubles. An old and battered stuffed horse cuts a sharp contrast against the rest of it, the only item of the batch Dean recognizes. Under Dean’s fingers, the leather of its tiny bridle threatens to crumble where it was once shiny and soft.

 

“The only control I had was over how much to give,” Sam says over the rustle of clothing. “I couldn’t stop her, Dean. I could slow her down a little, but I felt like a spilled cup. I couldn’t stop pouring. At first, it felt like I was giving, and that was fine, but then it was just _taking_.”

 

“I think that’s the stopping place,” Dean says, risking a glance over his shoulder. Finding Sam wearing different pants, he leaves the bookshelf alone and goes to sit on Sam’s four poster bed instead, leaning his shoulder against one of the posts. He views his brother’s anti-possession tattoo with a particularly strong sense of reassurance. “Whenever it was you stopped being fine, that’s where you gotta stop. Your body knows shit you don’t, so you gotta listen.”

 

“Like with sword training,” Sam says.

 

Dean nods. “Like with sword training.”

 

Buttoning up his nightshirt, Sam stares into the middle distance. He’s somewhere between thinking and falling asleep on his feet.

 

Dean pats the bed beside him. Sam sits with a hard bounce before flopping back entirely, arms spread in the drama he reserves for private moments.

 

“I wonder if Jess ever noticed,” Sam muses to the canopy of his bed.

 

“Why, she heal your paper cuts in the library?” Dean asks.

 

“No,” Sam says, a smirk in his voice.

 

Dean twists to look at him. “What are you telling me here.”

 

“Let’s just say there’s a reason neither of us ever has hickeys,” Sam answers with a conspiratorial grin.

 

“Dude,” Dean says. “I did not need to know that about you.”

 

Sam shrugs against the duvet. “Perks of being with a healing mage. No bruised lips either. You can just keep on kissing.”

 

“Did not need to know that.”

 

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Sam frowns a little. “Yeah, you did.”

 

“Uh, no,” Dean says. “Why would I need to know that?”

 

“Because of Cas,” Sam says, like Dean’s being an idiot.

 

Dean blinks at him. “What about Cas?”

 

“Cas is a healing mage,” Sam says.

 

“What? Since when?”

 

Groaning, Sam sits up fully. “You said he was using a spell to keep those wings on, right? And it kept them warm, even?”

 

“How is that healing magic?”

 

“Nick told Jess and me about a couple cases where healers lost limbs and were able to temporarily reattach them,” Sam says. “Jess says a lot of that research was discontinued because it looked too close to necromancy, but it sounds like the practical problem with reattaching limbs was that continual casting was necessary. Power runs out, limbs fall off. Plus apparently the mobility was pretty awful. Like you can stick your hand back on, but you can’t get your fingers to move. It’s not exactly a functional solution, but it’s the closest anyone’s gotten to regrowing limbs.”

 

Dean stares at him. “Are you telling me Cas is continually necromancing a pair of taxidermied griffin wings to his back?”

 

“I’m pretty sure,” Sam says.

 

Dean keeps staring. “That is so fucking badass.”

 

Sam shakes his head at him. “How did you not know he was a healing mage? It’s been days. Their type is the third thing a mage tells you, right after hello and their name.”

 

“Not Cas,” Dean says. His cheeks twinge, but his grin is as hard to stop as it is sudden to arrive. “The guy doesn’t care. I know, it sounds nuts, but he really doesn’t care. We haven’t talked about his magic at all.”

 

“Huh,” Sam says.

 

“I know, right?”

 

They sit there and Dean still can’t stop grinning.

 

“He’s something else, Sam,” Dean says. “Something good. Something real good.”

 

“Good,” Sam repeats, or maybe praises. “You gonna do a long-distance thing after tomorrow?”

 

“I got plans,” Dean assures him.

 

“You should probably tell them to Cas, first.”

 

“I mentioned a couple,” Dean says. “C’mon, I’m not Dad. Told him he could apply to the Men of Letters, you know? Live and research here.”

 

Up go Sam’s eyebrows. “You told him he could _apply_?”

 

“You know, normally when people say they don’t want preferential treatment, they don’t mean it,” Dean says. “Cas, though, he almost looked panicked at the idea.”

 

“I mean, it would look like he’d only slept his way into the position,” Sam says. “Though I’m surprised he panics. If he had the poker skills to go with that face, he’d probably wipe the whole garrison out.”

 

“You gotta look at his eyes,” Dean explains, pointing to his own. “It’s really subtle and the mask doesn’t help, but it’s there. Y’know, he thought he’d stumbled into a state secret with your vessel thing, but he just.” Dean holds out his own hand. “Steady as a rock.”

 

“I think I should be his application,” Sam says.

 

Dean looks at him.

 

“No, seriously.”

 

“No, I was already thinking that,” Dean says. “Except that would mean making your talent more public, and I don’t think we’re ready to risk that.”

 

“Dean, really, what’s gonna happen to me?” Sam asks. “I mean, besides Dad training me into the dirt.”

 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “And that’s why I don’t like it.”

 

Sam shakes his head a little. “I’m still surprised you didn’t drag me out of the party last night the second Cas told you.”

 

“I wanted to,” Dean admits.

 

“But you knew I was safe, and you didn’t,” Sam says. “Maybe you’re mature enough for twenty-nine.”

 

Dean wavers before saying, “No, Cas just talked me down. Just until I realized that if you really needed me, you would have already come to find me.”

 

“Cas talked you down,” Sam repeats, because of course he doesn’t listen to the part about Dean being reasonable on his own. “Cas _talked you down_. Dean, that’s… That’s huge. Are you gonna marry him? Maybe you should marry him.” He only sounds half-joking.

 

“Have you seen him?” Dean asks, gesturing at his eyes and motioning beyond.

 

“If I do, should I tell you?”

 

“Yes,” Dean says. Then: “No.” Then: “I don’t know.” He shakes his head and says, “Don’t strain yourself. C’mon, lie down, it’s naptime for Sammies.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes but clambers up fully onto his bed. “Jerk.”

 

Behind the safety of two thick oak doors, Dean answers, “Bitch. Get under those blankets, come on.”

 

“It’s May, I’m hot.”

 

“It’s May first,” Dean shoots back. “And if you think it’s hot now, wait until we’ve got you wearing gloves in the summer.” He stands and retrieves the stuffed horse from its spot on the shelf, next to a crystal bookend in the shape of an impala deer. “Here’s Sully, go to sleep.”

 

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam tells him, but he tucks the stuffed horse beneath his arm anyway.

 

“Why do you even still have that thing?” Dean asks. “You changing your mind about turning twenty-five?”

 

“Of course I still have him,” Sam says. “You gave him to me when I manifested.”

 

Dean blinks a little, thinking. He snaps his fingers. “Right. You wouldn’t shut up about it. Just ‘open the horse, open the horse’ until I grabbed the right present. Had to be the one with the rainbow saddle blanket. Giving him to you was the only way to make you shut up.”

 

“Oh,” says Sam, sitting back up. He crosses his legs beneath him.

 

His eyes aren’t wide. His expression is calm. He doesn’t sound upset either, but there’s a reason Dean has enough practice to read even Cas.

 

“What?” Dean asks.

 

“Nothing,” Sam says, so Dean waits. And waits.

 

“It’s just,” Sam says, and Dean waits a bit more.

 

“You said you were proud of me,” Sam says, like Dean should have remembered this. Like Dean should remember that day as anything other than the foundations of his universe being torn out from under him. The first day of being cast aside.

 

There are moments where, despite it all, Sam is still ridiculously young. Despite the visions, despite their upbringing, despite the weight of the entire country steadily bearing down on him. Despite their tutors, despite their parents, despite Dean himself. There are still moments where Sam is ridiculously young. Or, perhaps, impossibly human, the way they’re not allowed to be.

 

Dean never knows what to do in these moments.

 

This one is no different.

 

He blusters his way through anyway, hands on his hips and heart between his teeth. “Sammy, what the hell does you manifesting have to do with me being proud of you?”

 

Something crinkles behind Sam’s eyes. He looks away from Dean, blinking repeatedly. His shoulders rise and fall. In a voice too small for a man so absurdly big, he says, “You weren’t kidding about not being Dad.”

 

“If Dad was any more proud of you, he’d burst something,” Dean tells him flatly.

 

“If Dad was any more proud of my _magic_ ,” Sam says, and something inside Dean tilts.

 

“It’s part of you.”

 

“And it’s still never good enough,” Sam says. “That was the closest I’ve ever gotten to being the fire mage he’s always wanted, and it wasn’t even me.”

 

Dean sits back down on the bed. “Sammy, if you want someone to comfort you over not being magic enough, you’re talking to the wrong guy.”

 

“My visions are too erratic,” Sam tells him. “I can’t have them at will, I can’t repeat them. All I can do is get my life force drained out of me and know where to go running for my big brother.”

 

“Sam,” Dean says, firm. “This is not an eight in the morning conversation. This is a two in the morning conversation. While drunk.”

 

“Yeah, all right,” Sam says, as if that was an invitation. He’s stupid, this tired. “Cas will head out by then tonight, right?”

 

“He’s left on the early side, so far,” Dean says. “Don’t think he will tonight, though. Research night and all.”

 

Research and kissing.

 

Cas had promised.

 

Dean’s insides twirl around like leaves in the wind, thinking of it. The sheer unrepentant nerve that, in a showier man, would be called panache.

 

“Why does ‘research night’ sound like a euphemism?” Sam asks, eyeing him. At least, eyeing him as much as he can with his eyes half closed.

 

“I don’t think you want to know that.”

 

“I don’t think I do either,” Sam agrees.

 

“Good. Now go to sleep.”

 

“Yeah, all right.” Sam sinks down into his bed and actually tucks the stuffed horse back under his arm. The urge to laugh at him smacks up against the urge to wrap him up in cotton wool and never let him outside ever again.

 

Dean extinguishes the magelight on his way out with a double-tap on one of the linked orbs. Do these draw from Sam, too? They shouldn’t, right? But until they know for sure, they should get him some candles or an oil lamp. And not let Sam near anything enchanted for a while.

 

Exiting into the hall, he finds the space surprisingly empty. He must have taken too long for his parents to wait around. Hand still on Sam’s doorknob, he lets himself pause a moment before getting his ass in gear. He can still make the end of the morning training session. He sets off before remembering he’s wearing the wrong boots and backtracks to his own rooms.

 

He opens the door only to find his lights already on.

 

Inside Dean’s sitting room, his parents are standing very close and very quiet, two things that are usually mutually exclusive. Moreover, his mother’s jacket has smudges of soot on the front.

 

They turn to look at Dean as he enters.

 

“How is he?” Mary asks.

 

“Napping,” Dean answers, closing the door behind him. “He already found his limit, too. Said there was a point where it changed from him giving, to Dame Joanna taking. Sounds like that should be the cut-off point.”

 

Mary nods while John listens with a thoughtful expression. “That’s good to know,” John says.

 

“Mom, are you all right?” Dean asks. Normally, he wouldn’t ask, not in front of John, but.

 

There’s soot on her jacket.

 

And maybe that long, blond hair on John’s black casting robe is from Jo, but maybe it isn’t.

 

“I’m adjusting,” Mary says.

 

“We all are,” John says in the voice of a man who has already adjusted.

 

“Mom?” Dean asks again, and he puts his hand on her shoulder.

 

She bites her lip but doesn’t pull away. John steps in close, and she doesn’t pull away. John wraps his arms around them both, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with his hands. In the end, they hold on, an awkward arrangement of limbs and faces and not looking at each other as they breathe.

 

“He’s alive,” John says quietly.

 

“I almost killed him,” Mary says, even quieter.

 

They hold her tight.

 

They hold her so tight.

 

“We could have had more,” Mary says, muffled. “We never even tried for a daughter.”

 

“I’m sorry,” John says. Only that, but already more than Dean can remember him ever saying. “I wasn’t going to risk you, Mary.”

 

They get go slowly, uncomfortably. Now free to look at each other, they all look away, blinking until the need to blink passes.

 

“What else did that scholar of yours say?” John asks.

 

“Already told you everything last night,” Dean says. “This morning. Whichever. He said that was all he knew, too, unless you count angel stories.”

 

“What would angels have to do with vessels?” Mary asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Dean admits, though he hardly thinks that matters. Then again, if previously unknown or seemingly lost talents can be real, maybe he really should take a better look at that whole angel thing. “I’ll ask him tonight.”

 

“Bring him around,” John instructs. “It’s time I spoke with this Castiel.”

 

While Dean’s stomach twists, his face remains neutral. “Yes, sir. Where and when?”

 

“When does he arrive?”

 

“He’s been in by eight, the last two nights,” Dean says.

 

“When you find him, you bring him to me,” King John tells him. “What we have to discuss, we can discuss in the side room.”

 

“Wouldn’t that draw undue interest?” Dean asks, hands clasped behind his back, head slightly bowed.

 

“Do you plan to continue pursuing this man?” King John asks.

 

Dean’s stomach doesn’t merely twist. It turns inside out.

 

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I do.”

 

“Then I fail to see how meeting the man who has captured my son’s eye would draw undue interest,” King John concludes. “You’ll bring him to me.”

 

It’s research night. He promised Cas it would be research night.

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says.

 

“What has he asked for, in exchange for his silence?” King John continues.

 

“He hasn’t asked for anything,” Dean answers, voice steady as his heart leaps. “However, his current project at Carver University is centered around angels, and Sam says there’s a few things in the basement he thinks might help.”

 

“Sam’s already looked?” Mary asks.

 

“Well, it’s Sam,” Dean says, falling back on that decades old excuse. “I don’t think he was acting at his most chronological. He wants to help Castiel definitively prove angels were real. Turns out, Sam never outgrew his angel phase.”

 

“Didn’t that end when he was ten?” Mary asks.

 

“Twelve, I thought,” John says.

 

“It came back,” Dean says.

 

“In any case, you’re proposing access in exchange for his silence,” King John continues.

 

“I am,” Dean says. “Although I want it noted for the record that when Castiel told me Sam was a vessel, he clearly thought he was admitting to discovering a state secret. He stated concern that Sam doesn’t wear gloves for physical contact and didn’t understand when I asked him to explain.”

 

He’d also phrased things pretty horrifically at the start, but Dean’s choosing to ignore that forever. He never wants to even think the words _I felt something when I touched your brother_ ever again. Sam’s not the only one who’s an idiot when tired.

 

“Consider it noted,” King John tells him. “Anything else?”

 

“Sam wants to be Castiel’s application piece for the Men of Letters,” Dean answers.

 

“And you agree?” King John asks, as if this has ever mattered before.

 

Dean nods. “He’s extremely intelligent and we’d do well to poach him before Carver University figures out what they have. To protect Sam, the official application could be for proven research methods into obscure lore.”

 

“If we recognize his findings, he could be less inclined to seek that recognition elsewhere,” Mary reasons, speaking to her husband.

 

“It’s something to consider,” King John allows.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Dean says.

 

“What else do we know about Castiel?” Mary asks in a tone equal parts queen and mother.

 

“He had a rough childhood before finding a patron at the university,” Dean summarizes. “He has three living siblings, though I don’t think they’re by blood. He has one deceased sister, dead of possession. He has no memory of his parents and may not know when his birthday is. He’s over thirty, maybe over thirty-five, but I don’t think by much. He’s a healer mage, strong, but his focus of study is six to seven hundred years ago, specifically around angels and demons.” Dean might be stretching the truth on the last, but only a little. Demonology is always a useful knowledge set, even if it’s clearly not Cas’ passion.

 

Continuing, he adds, “He’s a colleague of Seer Shurley and is working with him on his current project. He’s here on Seer Shurley’s invitation, though he’s socially conservative enough to hesitate in claiming the seer’s friendship.”

 

“Socially conservative,” King John repeats, eyeing Dean pointedly.

 

Dean flushes. “There’s a certain amount of withdrawn you have to get through, first. He thrives on academic subjects.”

 

“A good start for a Man of Letters,” Mary says.

 

Dean nods. “He’s qualified. I know how biased I look right now, but what he discovered yesterday may end up saving Sam’s life down the line. That’s exactly the kind of lore support I want behind my knights.”

 

“It’s something to consider,” King John says again.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Dean repeats.

 

“If Dean’s intent on pursuing him, Castiel ought to have a surname,” Mary says to King John. “Awarding a new one would have fewer complications than investigating his family history.” By which she means, there is the risk Castiel is a discarded bastard rather than a true orphan. She looks to Dean. “Do you know if he was at an established orphanage?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “Only that a soldier looked after them for a while. I can ask. Though I think it would be more advantageous tonight to show him the artifacts Sam tracked down. Show him his contributions and cooperation will be rewarded. I know it would be effective. He’s more research-driven than even Sam is.”

 

“Do it after you bring him to me,” King John commands, and some of the tension wrapped around Dean’s spine dissipates.

 

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

 

“Good,” John says. “That will be all for now.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Moving to leave, King John says, “Mary.”

 

Rather than follow, Mary moves forward to hug Dean again. “I want to talk to him, too, you know,” she tells Dean, voice firm by his ear.

 

“As his queen or as my mother?” Dean asks. Over Mary’s shoulder, he sees his father’s lips quirk behind his beard.

 

“Seeing as his queen _is_ your mother, I don’t see why I should have to choose,” Mary replies. “I remember the last time your head turned like this.”

 

That Mary makes the connection ought to be terrifying. Instead, it solidifies something deep in Dean’s gut, that determined promise to himself that, should he ever find another Lisa, he wouldn’t hesitate.

 

“Last time,” Dean says, “my position scared her off.” And directly into the arms of another man, at that. Which even Dean’s jealous heart can understand, seeing as he did much the same himself. If only the origin spells on Ben hadn’t pointed toward that other man as well, things would be a lot different. Dean would have a wife and a son legitimately recognized, instead of a distant friend and a young, sponsored mage.

 

It’s been strange, how little that thought has grown to hurt. And now, it’s entirely bizarre, how it no longer hurts at all.

 

“We’ll space it out,” Mary decides, pulling back from their hug. “I can wait and talk to him tomorrow. If you don’t mind me stealing him for a dance, that is.”

 

Dean is going to have to bury Cas in books in apology. Except not literally, what with the whole claustrophobia thing.

 

...Which would have been an important complication to remember _before_ committing Cas to an interrogation with a king in a tiny room.

 

Dean’s gonna have to give the guy an entire library to make up for this. Piecemeal, so it’s not overwhelming. If he offers anything else, Cas will hit him with another one of those gruff _I don’t need you to take care of me_ deflections. An orphan standing his ground against a prince, infuriatingly magnificent in every inch he refuses to give. Maybe someday, Dean will be able to kiss him into compliance, but it’s been hell holding back.

 

Aloud, Dean says, “He’s still learning how to dance, so you'll have to lead.”

 

“I can do that,” Mary says. She pulls away fully to join John who, surprisingly, has waited for her at the door. “I’ll see you at lunch,” she adds. “A late lunch, I think.”

 

“Hold on,” Dean says, meaning to walk out with them. He ducks into his bedroom to grab his boots, but when he returns to his parents’ sides, they stare at him.

 

“What are you doing?” Mary asks.

 

“I’m missing training,” Dean says. “They’ll be halfway through weapon drills by now.”

 

John looks at Dean with an expression Dean isn’t used to. There’s a smile in it. “Go to bed, son,” John orders softly.

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says before his father’s words can really register.

 

They register.

 

By sheer force of habit, Dean doesn’t question them, not aloud.

 

John nods back. “See you at lunch,” he says, which is strange, and he looks at Mary in a way that is even stranger.

 

As they exit through the door, she takes his hand, and she looks back at John the same way.

 

Left alone in his rooms, Dean is abruptly haunted by a question his brain will never recover from: just how much of the strain of his parents’ marriage is from sexual tension?

 

Shuddering, Dean drops his boots. He tries to go to bed, shudders even harder, and has to pry his mind from the frankly horrifying thought that his mother might not be too old for that daughter she’s always wanted. Is fifty-four too old? Can people have children that late? Is Dean going to have to tear his own eyes out if he keeps wondering about this?

 

Deciding that the answer to at least the last question is a resounding yes, he shucks his fancy castle clothes. Muscle memory tells him to roll them, the better to stick them in his travel bag, but he lays them out on his chair instead.

 

He pulls back the covers of his bed and slides under in just his smallclothes. Without a stuffed horse to tuck under his arm, he settles in with pillows instead. In a path as inevitable as it is predictable, the quiet crunch of down feathers leads his mind back to thoughts of wings. How, unnatural stiffness aside, Cas wears them with a sleek, unconscious grace.

 

He wonders what Cas looks like without them.

 

He wonders what Cas looks like without a couple other things, too.

 

Last time, four days in, he’d known what Lisa had looked like without those other things. Then again, last time, four days in, he hadn’t known Lisa was an only child or what her relationship with her mother was like, or all sorts of details. Last time, a full week in, they hadn’t discussed his position in any depth, let alone the historical weight and development of it. They’d not talked about or even acknowledged Dean’s hunting, much less debated the efficacy of anti-demon measures. He’d felt that connection and tried to hold onto it with his body, not his words.

 

Maybe, this time, he can do it right.

 

Maybe, this time, he’s already doing it right.

 

He thinks of Cas talking him down last night. Cas holding him so firm and steady, and how surreal it felt to be the protected, not the protector. He thinks of Cas’ poorly disguised panic at the pressure his university patron put on him, of Cas calming as Dean addressed those fears. Cas trusting him with his body as they danced, with his thoughts as they spoke.

 

Is that doing it right? Maybe. It feels like it is. He’ll keep at it until he knows it is, because he’s going to do it right. He’s going to hold on in word and deed. He’s not going to wait another nine years – or longer – to feel this again.

 

He nods against his pillow, then has to roll his eyes at himself. Forget Sam, Dean is the melodramatic one on this little sleep. Comfortable bed and thick pillows or not, he’s wide awake, mind buzzing like a bee circling a flower. His mattress pulls his limbs down and his sheets keep them there, but yeah, no. Too awake. Too nervous, too eager.

 

He closes his eyes to rest, just to rest, and when he sleeps, he dreams, aching and hopeful.

  



	7. Fourth Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is another long one. Slightly longer than chapter five, in fact. Ready your snacks now and remember your tea, because there is no snack break in the middle of this one.

When he reports to Raphael, he begins with his lead for the coming night. The news that the tablet in question was recovered from a demon stronghold is not promising. If it were the tablet they seek, the demons would have used it instead to unleash their own. The demons clearly have enough knowledge of portals to be able to send the tablet into their realm of banishment and thereby unlock it from within.

 

Still, Castiel argues, this first tablet could lead to more.

 

As expected, as is reasonable, Raphael asks why the human prince knows Castiel is looking for any tablet at all. Castiel explains that he has discovered a point of dispute between the two princes: namely, the very existence of angels. This pronouncement receives a great variety of reactions from those gathered, from disbelieving anger to incredulous amusement. Very lightly, Raphael’s scapular feathers lift, as slight a motion as if it were the wind ruffling them, but here, there is no wind. There never has been, and never shall be.

 

When this response dies down, Castiel continues to explain Prince Samuel’s press for physical evidence of angels and Prince Dean’s willingness to allow Castiel to identify it. Castiel believes he can continue to position himself as a pawn in this brotherly debate.

 

Of course, Castiel is expected to report what he has done this past night, not simply what he intends to do tomorrow. He responds that he procured two hours of access to the castle library, but only found innumerable codices and a scattering of scrolls.

 

He does not mention the dancing. He does not mention Prince Samuel’s status as a vessel.

 

What he does mention is a concern passed onto him from Prince Dean: are they certain, absolutely certain, that Lucifer was banished with the demons?

 

Castiel’s intelligence is clearly brought into question by his asking, but he makes his point and explains it well. Lucifer would only have been banished with the demons if he were tied to them in some way. Are they certain he was tied?

 

The answer is yes. Further explanations are not offered, and Castiel knows better than to ask for them.

 

Later, while Castiel again practices facial expressiveness with Joshua, Hannah asks him why he was concerned. Castiel restates his reasoning, fully based in the practicalities and technicalities of banishment spells. Hannah looks at him long and hard, and Joshua repeats the question.

 

Castiel has no further answer, and so the matter drops.

 

Hours later, he picks the matter back up and takes it to Uriel. There, he is met by the resolute practicality and knowledgeable condescension he has grown to expect from his brother. In their final battles before the banishment, most of the other architects of the banishment spell were slain, and the de facto promotion has not always suited Uriel well. Still, Castiel has the answers he seeks, if not the reassurance.

 

He finds his hand closing on its own, not into a fist but into the memory of a hold. Experimentally, he thinks of Prince Dean and feels himself grow calmer. It’s a result both strange and somehow expected. He meditates on the human’s unmasked face, and the power still full to bursting inside of him becomes easier to handle.

 

The time crunch combines poorly with that burst of energy. He knows this. He wills his body to understand it as well as his mind does, but the agitation remains.

 

Seeking to soothe it, Castiel forgoes further research. He has already memorized every detail Uriel can tell him about the royal family, the matters of the kingdom, and beyond. Instead, he finds Balthazar and pries him away from his current project of another borrowed shirt.

 

While restoring cloth revives the strength of the remaining threads, it does not replace those already missing. For this reason, most of their clothing is extremely thin, which makes modification a problem. In attending a masquerade ball meant to escalate in finery, Castiel has difficulties remaining merely presentable. Though Balthazar has sarcastically feigned gratitude for something to do, separating him from his task at hand takes a surprising amount of effort.

 

Castiel manages it with promises of a new task. He needs Balthazar to help him practice a new skill. Balthazar takes to dancing well enough, but he doesn’t delight in it as Castiel had hoped he would. From there, they recruit Uriel, who initially balks. Once Balthazar explains that this is an amusing little thing those humans do to entertain themselves, Uriel joins them with a shared laugh.

 

To Castiel’s surprise, enlisting Hannah requires no cornering. Nor does she share in Balthazar and Uriel’s almost ironic enjoyment. From the interchanging dance with all four of them to joined dances with Castiel, her engagement is as sincere as Castiel’s. They use their wings, inventing their own movements and negating Castiel’s excuse of practice. It isn’t flying. They don’t swoop or soar or circle. It’s not as good as that and it isn’t as good as it was in the world outside either, but it is still moving together.

 

Balthazar begs off to finish his project and Uriel follows, but Castiel and Hannah dance on, united in delight. They have no music, just as they have no wind, but as they mouth words to silent songs and flap their wings, Castiel knows he can make even this change.

  
  


For the first time, the crowd parts for him.

 

There is no prince at his side, but the humans around him behave as if there is. They see him and nod to him as equals, some going as far as to visibly defer. He makes it to the door in record time, and a different guard than the usual blonde woman waves him in without checking his invitation. This new man doesn’t tell him where Dame Joanna has gone, but he does smile and answer another question, saying, “Same place.”

 

Castiel walks with long steps through the even longer hall. The costumes are brighter, flashier, tonight. There are enchantments enough to make the eye twitch. There are, for some reason, at least two people wearing small and anatomically incorrect wings. These are almost offensively inaccurate, but it’s the change in theme that has Castiel concerned. They’re not expected to switch the themes of their costumes, are they? If they are, it’s an expectation Castiel has no choice but to defy.

 

A high flash of silver reassures him. He approaches the familiar horns until he can see the familiar face beneath them. Prince Dean hasn’t changed themes in the slightest, though perhaps he is as much bound to the royal animal as Castiel is to his own wings.

 

Deep in conversation with humans Castiel doesn’t recognize on sight – a group which comprises, approximately, every human, save three – Prince Dean nods along to something a tall woman is saying. When he replies, he gestures with hands sheathed in black leather gloves. They match his belt and boots, and despite having little sense of fashion, Castiel immediately dislikes them.

 

Although Prince Dean doesn’t seem to notice Castiel standing perhaps ten feet behind him, Castiel’s presence garners attention around them. The guests who see him nudge those beside them, or lean down to whisper, or catch each other’s eyes and nod toward Castiel.

 

Once more, the crowd parts. A path of humans opens between walls of stone, until Castiel stands alone with space to spare. It’s not space enough to stretch his wings, not nearly enough for that, but it is vastly more room than Castiel has come to expect. That gap stretches between himself and Prince Dean, and it is that movement, that emptiness, that must catch Prince Dean’s attention.

 

He turns.

 

He sees Castiel.

 

He smiles.

 

Castiel bows and approaches, and the leather of Prince Dean’s gloves is foreign against his palm. It is supple and warm, but reminds Castiel more of the healer mage Nicholas he danced a round with last night. It does not feel like Prince Dean.

 

“Hello, Sir Dean,” he greets, holding tighter anyway.

 

“Hey, Cas,” Prince Dean says, drawing Castiel forward to stand at his side. “I was just…” He gestures vaguely at the woman before him.

 

“I wouldn’t wish to interrupt,” Castiel says.

 

“Neither would I,” returns the woman. She politely smiles at them both before bobbing a bow in Prince Dean’s direction. “Your Highness.”

 

He nods in response and acknowledges her by title rather than name, which tells Castiel very little. Much of the group about Prince Dean takes the cue to disperse with her, but a number linger. Prince Dean takes care of the rest himself by the simple act of walking away, swinging their hands between them before pulling Castiel close enough for their shoulders to bump. Castiel’s folded wing presses against Prince Dean’s back, down the length of him.

 

What they achieve is not privacy, but the performance of privacy. They are looked at. They are inspected. They are watched as if their mere presence is a marvel. Castiel expects to be guided away from the spectators, but, being aware of them, he does not balk when Prince Dean brings him not to a staircase, but to the courtyard.

 

Though the beat is slow, the music is cheerful. Their arms stretch between them as Prince Dean keeps moving into the center of the courtyard where dancing is already underway. Prince Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand tighter while Castiel seriously considers halting where he stands. The tablet is not in the courtyard.

 

Sensing Castiel on the edge of refusal, Prince Dean turns back to him and stands close. He slides his free hand up Castiel’s shoulder to the back of his neck, and he leans down.

 

“This is as private of a conversation as we’re gonna get,” Prince Dean explains, breath hot over Castiel’s ear.

 

Castiel responds by wrapping his arm around Prince Dean’s waist. Their cheeks brushing, he brings his lips to Prince Dean’s ear and asks, “This is about last night?”

 

“We’re still having research night,” Prince Dean promises as they begin to move, their steps as careful as their lowered voices. Despite the tension of his body, Prince Dean’s voice remains light and jarringly casual. “Dad’s gonna sign you off for downstairs, but he wants more info on cups, first.”

 

“The kind of cup Dame Joanna drank from?” Castiel asks.

 

“Exactly that kind of cup,” Prince Dean confirms. “I told him what you told me, but he wants to hear it from you. Plus, you mentioned a story or two last night, and I’m sure he’d be interested.”

 

Castiel has too little time. Last night taught him that he can return to the portal in under fifteen minutes, but already, this puts him at under four and a half hours left for tonight. There’s no telling how long the king will seek to keep him, just as there’s an innate risk in yet another possibility of exposure.

 

Regardless of the dangers, his path is clear. As he cannot avoid this meeting, he must conclude it as quickly as possible.

 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want to do this to you,” Prince Dean adds, squeezing Castiel’s hand in his. The glove still feels wrong. Though Castiel is hardly rude enough to extend his grace through Prince Dean’s skin without permission, the barrier is still an annoyance.

 

His other hand shifting from Prince Dean’s spine to his hip, Castiel pulls back enough to look Prince Dean in the eyes. “What do I need to know?”

 

Prince Dean blinks but does not stumble. Their bodies continue to move together as if entirely independent from their minds. “You, uh. We’re going in together. He’s gonna ask you about us, and everyone knows it.”

 

“What do I tell him?”

 

“You answer what he asks,” Prince Dean tells him, which is not helpful.

 

“What do I tell him?” Castiel repeats. When this, too, fails to elicit elaboration, he adds, “What parts of you are private?” What does Prince Dean view their relationship to be? What is Castiel meant to claim? How quickly do human courtships move? With lifespans of under a century, their courtships must move rapidly, but he knows that none of Balthazar’s dalliances ever lasted more than a decade. What is an appropriate time frame? What can Castiel accept or decline without drawing even more scrutiny?

 

“Cas,” Prince Dean says, and his hand leaves the back of Castiel’s neck for the side of Castiel’s face. Though there is technically nothing amiss with it, the touch of the leather is wrong in every way. Prince Dean guides Castiel back in close and whispers into his ear. “He’s not actually gonna ask about me.”

 

This seems absurd. “I would,” Castiel argues. If an angel would for their siblings, surely a human would for their offspring.

 

Prince Dean nudges their masked temples together before replying, “I know you would.” This is evidently meant to be a complete answer.

 

“Is this all I should know?” Castiel asks.

 

“There’s a side room,” Prince Dean says. “A preparation space the musicians are using. We’ll be talking in there. It’s a tight fit, but it’ll be quick, all right? Just gotta get through this and the rest of the night is yours. We can come back out here for air before we go downstairs. Pretty cramped down there too.”

 

“Will you be with me throughout?” Castiel asks. He tightens his arm around Prince Dean’s back to indicate the correct response.

 

“I ain’t leaving you, Cas,” Prince Dean promises. “Dad doesn’t have an excuse to order me away, either. All right?”

 

It isn’t, but it will have to do.

 

“It would be indecorous to keep His Majesty waiting,” Castiel replies. He shifts the pressure of his hands and Prince Dean is surprised enough to let him take the lead.

 

“You’re ready now?” Prince Dean asks. “Just like that? Not to scare the crap out of you or anything, but he _is_ the fucking king.”

 

“We should go while I have my nerve,” Castiel says with no intention of losing it.

 

Through the holes of his mask, Prince Dean gazes at him. It’s longer than a look, softer than a stare. At last, Prince Dean says, “I love how strong you are, you know that, right?”

 

“I do now,” Castiel replies. It’s a reasonable trait for a warrior prince to admire. Castiel considers smiling but decides against it due to the seriousness of the moment.

 

They dance only a few steps more, just enough to move them to the edge of the festivities. Prince Dean still doesn’t drop his hand and Castiel no longer expects him to. Party-goers part before them with respectful nods, and their progress through the hall to the throne room is swift. When they reach it, the dais and the thrones upon it are empty.

 

“There,” Prince Dean says, nodding toward the dancing. Though the arrangement is in clusters of four dancers, it’s a very different pattern than Castiel learned last night. “They’re with Sam and Jo.”

 

Castiel tilts his head until he catches a flash of a knight’s uniform among the other guests. “She’s been invited to dance by your family?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Prince Dean says, not bothering to lower his voice. “Sam and Dad are even working on special training with her, since her powers have improved so well. Even my father thinks she has a lot of potential, and you don’t get him saying that about a lot of fire mages.”

 

“I see,” Castiel says, and he does. He searches for an obscure word to continue a previous metaphor. It’s not a word he’s used often, something about the watering of humans, and failing to recall it, he settles for another. “Her training must be thirsty work.”

 

Prince Dean nods, his eyes on his family. “Yeah, she’s pretty much constantly got a cup of water in hand. Gotta stay hydrated, you know.”

 

Hydration. The word he wanted was hydration.

 

Castiel nods back. “That seems dangerous for the cup. Surely so much fire would melt most tools.”

 

“Jo’s careful,” Prince Dean says. He looks back to Castiel, his masked face as bare as an angel’s, and Castiel understands him much better.

 

“I imagine she would have to be, to receive the honor of that training.”

 

Prince Dean squeezes his hand, leather sliding against skin. “Exactly,” he says, perhaps to reassure himself. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

 

In a feat of timing Castiel cannot wholly attribute to Prince Samuel’s better known powers, the dance concludes as Prince Dean leads him closer. Standing at the center of a large circle of humans, Dame Joanna deeply bows to the rest of the royal family. Both the king and queen reach forward, he with his right hand, she with her left, and in taking Dame Joanna’s hands, they bid her to rise. The crowd responds by hitting their hands together, some fervently, some with a mincing politeness. Castiel copies the frequency and manner Prince Dean uses.

 

When the older royals release Dame Joanna, she turns to Prince Samuel for another bow. He responds with a gloved, outstretched hand. When she takes it, he tugs her, fails to budge her despite the vast differences in size, and, laughing, stoops to hug her instead. They embrace, Dame Joanna rocking up onto her tiptoes to fit into the hold, and there is more hitting of hands. Again, Castiel copies Prince Dean, staying half a beat behind.

 

Perhaps spotting Prince Dean by the horns of his mask, perhaps simply having seen them in advance, Prince Samuel turns toward them as he pulls back from his embrace with Dame Joanna. With her at his side, Prince Samuel approaches them with purpose, and the crowd parts before him. As all eyes redirect toward them, Prince Dean’s hand falls from Castiel’s.

 

Stopping in front of Prince Dean, Dame Joanna stands at attention. Prince Dean nods. Dame Joanna stands at ease. Both knights, royal and noble, step forward in unison and hug tight, each with an arm smacking down hard on the other’s back. There is less hand-striking from the crowd at this, and as Dame Joanna pulls back, the music resumes, this wordless ceremony at an end.

 

“Atta girl,” Prince Dean says to her, and she pushes at his shoulder as they part entirely. Although now free to, Prince Dean does not renew his grip on Castiel’s hand. Instead, Prince Dean nods toward him. “You met Cas yet?”

 

“Yeah, he always has his invitation ready at the door,” Dame Joanna replies, nodding to Castiel. Castiel nods back. To Prince Dean, Dame Joanna says, “I like him, is he staying?”

 

Prince Dean looks at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. With his gaze as their only point of contact, he says, “We’ll see.”

 

Behind Dame Joanna, the king and queen approach. Unlike their sons, neither wears horns or masks tonight, merely ornate circlets of gold. Prince Samuel makes headway in a different direction, moving toward Lady Jessica beside the healer Nicholas in his wolf mask.

 

“Father, Mother,” Prince Dean greets as Dame Joanna smoothly gets out of the way. “Might I introduce Castiel of Carver University?”

 

Castiel bows deeply, hands at his sides, his wings sticking out behind him at an unnatural angle. When he straightens, he averts his gaze and waits until he is spoken to.

 

Queen Mary makes the first move, and in a literal sense. She steps closer and lays her hand upon Prince Dean’s arm. “My son speaks highly of you, Castiel.”

 

“A treatment he deserves in return, and more, Your Majesty,” Castiel replies. His eyes lift to hers before lowering submissively. “It is an honor to have been graced with His Highness’s company, and now Your Majesties’ as well.”

 

“Will we have the pleasure of yours for long?” Queen Mary asks. Beside her, King John watches him silently.

 

“Prior obligations shall send me home too soon, Your Majesty,” Castiel answers. “I come with congratulations from Seer Shurley in regards to Prince Samuel’s coming wedding, a sentiment which Seer Shurley fittingly offers in advance.”

 

Queen Mary smiles. King John does not. The latter is more comforting, or certainly more expected.

 

“I’m certain Seer Shurley already knows his presence is missed,” Queen Mary states in a form of human lie known as courtesy.

 

“I will confirm that he knows,” Castiel also lies.

 

Having observed Castiel long enough, King John now speaks. “Before you leave us, I would have a word with you, Castiel.”

 

Castiel bows his head. “I am at your disposal, Your Majesty.”

 

“Good,” says King John. “Now will do.”

 

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

 

“Dean,” says King John.

 

“Sir,” says Prince Dean.

 

The motion deliberate before his parents, before all of the many onlookers who have not returned to dancing, Prince Dean reaches. He threads his fingers through Castiel’s and presses their palms together tightly, with only that thin layer of leather between their skin.

 

Reflexively, Castiel holds fast. More intentionally, he ducks his head deeper, pulls back the corners of his mouth, and looks to Prince Dean. Around them, beneath the music, he hears whispering gossip, a muffled eruption of intrigue. The attention is long past the point of being avoidable, and now all Castiel can do is guide its starting point.

 

“With me,” King John says, tone unchanged.

 

“Gentlemen,” says Queen Mary, taking her leave. She touches Prince Dean’s shoulder opposite Castiel, though she looks at them both. With that, she moves in the same direction Prince Samuel had, no doubt rejoining her other son.

 

Thus alone in a crowd, Castiel and Prince Dean follow the king toward the musicians, then past them. Prince Dean releases Castiel’s hand to hasten forward and open a door for his father. King John enters the side room first, then Prince Dean, and Castiel closes the door behind them.

 

It is a small room with stone walls and a smattering of stacked chairs. Instrument cases cover the single table in the far corner and litter the floor around it. Set into the walls, a connected series of magelights shine with off-white light.

 

King John walks as far into the room as there is room to walk before turning. Remaining at Castiel’s side, Prince Dean doffs his mask and stands at attention. Castiel copies. Fitting his arms beneath his wings without moving his wings is an uncomfortable feat, especially while holding his mask, but Castiel clasps his hands behind his back all the same.

 

“What do you know of my son?” King John asks him.

 

To ask is to err. There are two possible mistakes to choose from, and Castiel selects the one which will endear him to at least one of the humans in this room.

 

“Your Majesty, Prince Dean is–”

 

“My other son,” King John corrects.

 

Castiel nods, chided for his error, and continues. “It is my understanding that Prince Samuel is both seer and vessel.”

 

“And what do you know of vessels?” King John asks.

 

Castiel answers with a more concise summary of what he told Prince Dean the previous night. He speaks of presumed abilities, claiming no firsthand knowledge. Without specific tomes to reference, he sticks to general descriptions. Every word underscores the mistake he made last night in broaching the subject at all.

 

“How did you come to know of this?” King John asks, precisely the question Castiel has dreaded. “I’m told you are a researcher of angels, not obscure mage gifts.”

 

With nowhere else to go, Castiel commits to the path ahead. “There is an overlap,” Castiel replies. “One I sincerely doubt Your Majesty will find pleasant.”

 

“Tell me,” King John orders.

 

“Approximately seven hundred years ago, there lived an artificer named Donald Finnerman, notable for his atypical means of enchanting his projects. He was said to have the ability to imbue organic materials – leather, bone, woolen cloth – with his own magic without use of any spellwork beyond the laying on of hands.

 

“Allegedly, he vanished in an explosion of his workshop and was thought dead, and yet there are contemporary records which identify a man of identical description seen in the company of angels, specifically the Archangel Raphael. The man in question was described as broken and void of understanding, a disposition incongruous with the artificer’s garb and tools he wore.

 

“Years later, a body thought to be Finnerman’s was found at the site of his former workshop. Upon that day, all items he had enchanted ceased to function. Curiously, Finnerman had referred to both the items he made and himself as ‘objects of power.’”

 

“This is your connection?” King John asks. “One man supposedly kidnapped by angels?”

 

“It is one story of many, Your Majesty,” Castiel answers, “and the least unpleasant.”

 

“Tell me the most,” King John commands.

 

There are too many.

 

Castiel begins to list them. “Alistair. Lilith. Azazel.” He continues in this manner until Prince Dean stops him.

 

“Castiel, why are you listing archdemons?” Prince Dean asks. Castiel’s full name sounds strange on his lips now, but that is far from a pressing concern.

 

“Because all demons are made from humans, Your Highness,” Castiel replies, the title equally strange. “The demons of the world now can only create new demons through possession, but archdemons were a notable exception. They’re said to have had the ability to corrupt at a touch, by forcing their own power into a living human.”

 

Both prince and king regard him silently.

 

“It was something I wondered about when I was younger,” Castiel continues, touching upon honesty. “Why a specific subset of demon would be so much more powerful and possess different abilities. But it occurred to me that many demons retain their mage gifts, even after their original body is destroyed. I sought to discover if there were records of humans whose abilities could match.”

 

“Are you telling us Sam could become an archdemon?” Prince Dean asks, voice calm, tone stable.

 

“Is His Highness your brother warded as you are?” Castiel asks. At Prince Dean’s nod, Castiel answers, “Then, no, he could not.”

 

“But if he weren’t, somehow,” Prince Dean says.

 

“The original archdemons were all fashioned by Lucifer himself, Your Highness,” Castiel replies. “Although I understand that is a presumption with which Your Highness takes issue, I stand by that established theory. Of course, while no new archdemons have arisen in the past six hundred years or so, it’s also possible that vessels have simply grown that rare.”

 

“Have you published your theory?” King John asks, as quiet as a blade already drawn.

 

“I have not, Your Majesty,” Castiel replies.

 

Without stepping forward, King John nevertheless gives the impression of stalking closer. For a human, he is imposing. “Do you intend to publish this theory?”

 

He dips his head, making his submissiveness clear. “It lies too far out of my field to be of interest, Your Majesty.”

 

“Is it a matter you’ve discussed with your patron?” King John asks.

 

After the archdemons arose, the angels had sought out the remaining vessels in the attempt to deny Lucifer their power. In so doing, and in presenting themselves as the vessels’ only defense against the threat of demonhood, they had availed themselves of the vessels’ abilities. And, ultimately, of the vessels’ lives.

 

It was a bloody time, one now looked upon with distaste. After the drooling mess Finnerman had become, no one dares broach the subject with Raphael.

 

“No, Your Majesty,” Castiel replies.

 

“And your patron is?” King John asks.

 

“A condition of their patronage is anonymity, Your Majesty,” Castiel answers, as well-prepared for the question as he can be without an actual human to claim. “It is unpopular to believe in the existence of angels, and my patron is too proud to be mocked for pursuing evidence to that end.”

 

“So you put up with the mocking instead, huh?” Prince Dean asks, a clear push for a lightened mood.

 

“I have borne worse, Your Highness,” Castiel answers, still looking to King John. “Moreover, I am naturally inclined toward the history of my name.” It’s as solid an alibi as any, and more solid than some.

 

“Is there more you would study?” King John asks with slightly narrowed eyes.

 

“I respond to the demands of my patronage, Your Majesty,” Castiel replies. “I can do no more.”

 

King John looks to Prince Dean. In response, Prince Dean steps closer to his father before turning back to Castiel, still within arm’s reach. “Castiel,” Prince Dean begins, “are you happy where you are?”

 

This is not a question Castiel has prepared for.

 

He hesitates too long.

 

“I… could be happier,” he admits.

 

His back to his father, Prince Dean smiles. “The Men of Letters need researchers who can make unlikely connections. Sounds like you’ve pieced together a lot of obscure stuff on your own.”

 

“A theory is nothing without the evidence to support it, Your Highness,” Castiel replies, a suspicion welling up inside his mind.

 

“It’s worked so far for my brother,” Prince Dean says. Beyond him, King John watches with a gaze as steady and solid as his presence. “I think you’d be a good fit.”

 

“If you seek to honor my contribution, Your Highness, I thank you,” Castiel replies evenly. “If you seek to secure my silence, I assure you, it is unnecessary.”

 

Prince Dean looks back to his father.

 

King John answers, “I seek to protect my son, and thereby the future of my kingdom. There must be more to uncover about his gift, and you’re the man with all the leads.”

 

This time, Castiel does not permit himself to hesitate. “I am at your disposal, Your Majesty.”

 

“See that you remain so,” King John instructs.

 

Castiel bows. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

“That was not a dismissal,” King John tells him.

 

Castiel resumes the at ease position. “What would you ask of me, Your Majesty?”

 

“The matter we are ostensibly in here to discuss,” King John replies. He nods toward Prince Dean. “What are your intentions toward my son?”

 

By the slight widening of Prince Dean’s eyes, Castiel knows the question takes Prince Dean by surprise.

 

“I intend to remain in His Highness’ company as long as I am permitted so to do,” Castiel answers. “It is an unsought gift which I am nevertheless loathe to relinquish.”

 

“Why did you approach him?” King John asks.

 

“With respect, Your Majesty, I did not. I returned to where I had already been made welcome.”

 

King John looks to Prince Dean.

 

Prince Dean nods.

 

To Castiel, King John says, “You would pursue my son.”

 

“Again with respect, it is Your Majesty’s son who is the hunter.” Castiel steels himself, weighing the king’s permission against the prince’s cooperation. “And should His Highness give chase, I will not take flight.”

 

The way Prince Dean looks at him, it is a new manner of looking. It is a use of the eyes the likes of which Castiel has never before seen. It is hard, though not in the way of iron or stone or even strength. It is hard in the way of a tight embrace, of palms pressed close, of difficult words about to be said.

 

Castiel stares back.

 

“Dean,” says King John, and Prince Dean turns back to his father.

 

“I want to see where this goes,” Prince Dean says.

 

It’s too undeniable to ignore any longer: he intends to keep Castiel for more than these five nights, and Castiel cannot be kept.

 

The thought solidifies as he has not before allowed it to do, and, deliberately, he pushes it away. He has made too many mistakes, but none of them can be undone or corrected, not at this point, not safely. He stands before a king and a prince with precious minutes slipping by, and his people are still trapped. That is the important matter, the only important matter. The intentions of one man against that are nothing, regardless of how heartfelt.

 

King John looks between the two of them, and Castiel bids his body calm. He has no choice but to remain tense in the wings, as anyone would be under the circumstances, which is useful. Less useful is his limited knowledge of human facial expressions. King John’s is a difficult one to parse.

 

“I’ll permit it for now,” King John decides.

 

These words rankle Prince Dean.

 

There’s no hint in his posture, no sign on his face Castiel can read, and yet Castiel looks at him and knows. He can’t explain how.

 

“Thank you, Father,” Prince Dean says with a slight bow.

 

Castiel bows as well, far more deeply.

 

“That will be all,” King John tells them.

 

“Yes, sir,” Prince Dean says for them both. They stand to the side for the king to pass, and King John opens the door for himself. He exits without looking back, and Castiel stays put even before he feels Prince Dean’s touch on his arm.

 

“Courtyard?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers. It seems Prince Dean has taken his claims of claustrophobia very seriously. “Are you all right?”

 

“What? Yeah, I’m good.” His touch rises to Castiel’s shoulder, then back down. “We’re good. You did good.” He keeps rubbing Castiel’s upper arm, fingertips brushing against the underside of his wing. “That was pretty much best-case scenario, honestly.”

 

“Your father wants me to work here,” Castiel states. “For your brother or for you?”

 

“Most things he does, he does for a minimum of, like, five reasons,” Prince Dean replies. “So, uh: yes.”

 

“Am I expected to give an answer soon? I would need to speak with my patron first.”

 

“Yeah, we can hash that out later,” Prince Dean promises. “And I do mean later. We can write. And it’s not like patrols never put me near the university, either.”

 

“I need time to think,” Castiel says, knowing full well his deception will not survive a visit to the university, or even a basic inquiry. “This is all a great deal to process.”

 

Prince Dean’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. His thumb brushes low, making slow sweeps across Castiel’s clavicle. Through the cloth of his shirt, the leather glove isn’t so jarring. “We can take some time to sit down and stuff, or we can do part two of Dad’s plan. Which is, by the way, me taking you downstairs and showing you all the crap you’d have access to as a Man of Letters.”

 

Castiel allows his eyes to widen.

 

Prince Dean grins, the motions of his thumb stopping. “Yeah, thought you’d like that. Research night with full approval.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says with the utmost sincerity.

 

“And, maybe, if you find something that helps wrap up your current project, well, who knows.”

 

Hope is too great a distraction. Choosing to ignore that line of thought, Castiel asks, “Should we go back out?”

 

“Right, yeah.” Dean squeezes his shoulder before releasing. With his other hand, he returns his mask to his head, and Castiel does the same. Quick about it, Castiel steps forward and makes sure to open the door and hold it for Prince Dean. Once they’re both through, Prince Dean reclaims Castiel’s hand. Even while still half hidden behind the musicians, there are innumerable eyes upon them.

 

They skirt around the dancing. Prince Dean waves to his brother, already back in that mix, and Prince Samuel nods back, grinning at both of them with a flash of teeth.

 

After enduring a small gauntlet of pleasantries and poorly disguised interest in Castiel, they escape from the nobles gathered in the throne room. In the hall, there are fewer people who have seen Castiel closeted with the king, but holding hands with a prince is not a good method of avoiding attention. It’s a small price to pay.

 

This time after Prince Dean helps him over the rope barrier, they go down the stairs. The ceilings grow lower and the acoustics change. Their synchronized steps echo back to them. “Still good?” Prince Dean asks, his voice a recurring whisper.

 

“I’ll tell you when I need to leave,” Castiel promises.

 

“Right you are.” Prince Dean swings their hands and lifts them up before his mouth. He presses his lips against the back of Castiel’s hand, and their steps fall out of sync on the stairs. Prince Dean stops a beat after Castiel does, their hands still held high between them. Prince Dean stands on the stairs a step below Castiel, and the reversed height difference changes the lines of his face in a way Castiel cannot help but study. When Prince Dean smiles, it is an unveiling. His eyes are hotter than the air of his breath.

 

Far less casually than the first time, Prince Dean returns his lips to Castiel’s skin, their eyes locked over their interlaced fingers. Something inside Castiel’s chest attempts to escape, a physical sensation of motion. He tries to hold it down, tries to hold it back, but he can feel it shine from his eyes like the power of his grace.

 

Another brush of the lips, so soft. “You gonna kiss me, Cas?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel rasps. He clears his throat to no avail.

 

Prince Dean lowers their hands. His other hand rises, as if to assume a dance position, but it lifts even higher, to the side of Castiel’s face. The leather feels cool against the heat of his own cheeks. “Yeah?”

 

Castiel fights to keep his eyes open. Half lidded is the best he can do. “Yes.”

 

Prince Dean lifts his chin and wets his lips.

 

With his free hand, Castiel covers the hand touching his face. He turns his head. He presses his lips to the center of a leather-clad palm. His eyes cannot help but close.

 

When he looks back to Dean, it’s clear the prince has no such issue. His eyes are round and wide and dark.

 

“Cas,” he says, voice deeper than even his gaze.

 

“I’m saving it for later,” Castiel explains.

 

“We can have more than one,” Prince Dean tells him. “You know that, right?”

 

“I can savor the anticipation,” Castiel says, not sure where the words come from. He reaches for something more sensible. “Also, a staircase doesn’t seem the best place.”

 

“You’re the one who stopped,” Prince Dean reminds him, eyes on Castiel’s mouth.

 

“You’re very distracting,” Castiel says, the truest thing he has ever said to this man. He’s still holding Prince Dean’s hand against his face. He can’t seem to stop. He forces himself to anyway.

 

“I can be more distracting.”

 

“I don’t doubt that,” Castiel says. Holding only one of Prince Dean’s hands, Castiel moves past him down the stairs. He does not need to pull. “You manage it even when absent.”

 

“Do I?” Prince Dean asks, following with a renewed grin in his voice.

 

Castiel ducks his head. He needs to stop saying things he does not plan to say.

 

“I mean, for future reference,” Prince Dean continues, “and scientific inquiry and all that, collecting information for posterity, that kind of thing… _how_ do I distract you?”

 

“I don’t have to answer that,” Castiel says.

 

“It’s my mouth, isn’t it?” Prince Dean asks. “You’re always staring at my mouth.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel warns, though against what, he isn’t sure.

 

“For me, it’s your hands,” Prince Dean continues. “Your hands and your voice. And maybe your hair. Not that I don’t think you could make the typical mage cut work, but this is good too.”

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning cheekily. Castiel immediately identifies the expression through the tone of his voice.

 

“Are there people down here?” Castiel asks.

 

“Guards, servants, yeah,” Prince Dean replies. “Party guests, not so much. Why?”

 

“You do realize your voice carries?”

 

The grin does not fade. “You let me grab your hand in front of half the nobility of this country and the next, but the guards overhearing, that’s where you draw the line?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says, just to see what will happen. Perhaps Prince Dean will send them away, the better to continue flirting. Castiel certainly hopes so. The fewer prying eyes, the better.

 

“Oh,” Prince Dean says, grin fading. Castiel very nearly corrects himself, but before he can tell Prince Dean that it is fine for him to continue, Prince Dean rallies, saying, “Yeah, I’ll stop.” He looks down at their hands before saying, “Should I…?” He loosens his grip.

 

Castiel tightens his.

 

Prince Dean smiles. “Awesome.”

 

They continue circling down one set of stairs and then another. Prince Dean knows precisely where he’s going, and so Castiel simply follows, easily memorizing what is essentially a straight route. They continue all the way to the bottom, where there are two doorways. Prince Dean takes the one on the left, which opens into a small hall. There are two guards before an iron door, and Prince Dean nods to them both, removing his mask.

 

After a polite greeting that comes out closer to a report, both guards stand aside and Prince Dean draws a thick key from his trouser pocket. While unlocking the door, Prince Dean asks the guard on the right, “How much can you hear on the stairwell from here?”

 

Keeping an otherwise blank expression, the guard looks from Prince Dean to Castiel and back, only moving her eyes. Before she can answer, Prince Dean says, “Never mind.”

 

Prince Dean gestures Castiel in first. Entering into the darkness is a show of trust, one Prince Dean immediately rewards by following him and slapping his hand on a magelight set into the wall. The door closes heavily behind them. The lock does not merely click into place. It clunks.

 

The chamber is the entrance to several more, each of these concealed behind thick vault doors. There are wards and runes set into each, the patterns themselves set in worked metal. The opening mechanisms show signs of being blood sealed. It’s nothing Castiel couldn’t overcome with a strong enough grip and leverage to pull – the hinges aren’t blood sealed – but it would stop most lesser creatures.

 

Hopefully, he can convince Prince Dean to take out anything relevant. The logbook itself is immense, the size of Castiel’s torso while closed, both in height and thickness. With Prince Dean’s mask now atop it, it sits on an entry table with multiple long ribbons peeking out from its pages. Castiel has no doubt he will spend considerable time tonight looking through it.

 

That is, until he looks beyond the book.

 

There are two tables in the room, each a sturdy wooden affair. They must be for processing and sorting the items that go into these vaults, and today, the closer one has two boxes upon it, in addition to a stack of paper, a writing kit, and a jug of water with two cups.

 

He sees the boxes and the world goes still.

 

“You recognize the design, then,” Prince Dean observes.

 

“Yes,” Castiel replies, approaching. He pushes aside a chair to better stand before the table. Wooden with iron corners, the boxes are of moderate sizes, though fairly flat. The thinner is the length of Castiel’s forearm and hand. The more square of the two is the length and width of his forearm. Each sports a small metal clasp to hold it shut, but this is not what keeps them secure.

 

Set deeply into each, there are carvings, geometric and precise.

 

Angel warding.

 

“Where did you find these?” he asks, his breath abandoning him.

 

“Sam found them in the logbook,” Prince Dean says, pointing back to the overgrown tome with a grin. “Before that, they were recovered from a demon stronghold. There was a lot more than just this, but you said you were looking for tablets and shit, and this one had a friend in a matching box. I’m more curious about that one, honestly.” He indicates the thinner, longer box.

 

“What’s inside that one?” Castiel asks.

 

Standing close, Prince Dean only grins wider. “Open it and see.”

 

Castiel looks down at two boxes he cannot touch, each containing an item demons had deemed worth warding.

 

He doesn’t move.

 

“Cas?” Prince Dean asks. He touches Castiel’s shoulder.

 

Castiel looks at Prince Dean’s hand. He looks at Prince Dean’s unmasked face. He pats the pouch on his belt, which holds only his invitation, and says, “I don’t have gloves.”

 

“What about gloves?” Prince Dean asks, blinking.

 

“Handling artifacts without gloves, it’s – you don’t do it,” Castiel hastens to explain. “It can damage them.”

 

“Oh,” Prince Dean says. His face falls somewhat, but only for an instant. “Right, yeah, I should have thought of that.” He makes an aborted gesture at the blank paper and writing kit. “Is there anything else you need? I can send someone.”

 

Prince Dean begins to draw away, and so Castiel pulls him back. His touch is light, merely a hand palming Prince Dean’s side above his hip, but the grip works as well here as it does while dancing. In an obvious show of muscle memory, Prince Dean’s hand returns to Castiel’s shoulder on the same side, and their feet align in a starting position. Realizing what he’s done, Prince Dean removes his hand.

 

Willing his feathers still, Castiel makes do smiling with his mouth instead. He pulls with his fingers, stepping backward, and they move together, one step, two, three, with Castiel’s hand as their sole point of contact. Their footsteps are their music. Castiel turns them, and he stops when his wings brush against the edge of the table.

 

Having kept his arms at his side throughout their impromptu dance, Prince Dean raises them now. His fingertips brush up Castiel’s cheeks before he removes the mask of feathers. Reaching past Castiel, Prince Dean sets the mask on the table behind him. After, his hands return to Castiel’s sides, his forearm a caress of cloth across Castiel’s. His eyes are full and deep, a thin border of green separating black from white.

 

There is half a step between them. With complete certainty, Castiel knows Prince Dean will not close it until Castiel pulls him closer. If Castiel pulls, they will be chest against chest, thighs bracketing thighs, knees framing knees.

 

Castiel’s hand falls from waist to hip, and that slight curve fills his palm. Prince Dean licks his lips, staring at Castiel’s.

 

“Very distracting,” Castiel murmurs, staring in return.

 

“You’re the one who started with the dancing, Cas,” Prince Dean answers, voice equally deep, equally low. It’s a whispered accusation better suited to a veil of feathers than a cold storeroom. This is the way people talk with their wings held high against each other, a tactile shield of privacy about their heads and upper bodies. Though Castiel has never done so, he is irrevocably convinced of it.

 

“You began it,” Castiel tells him. “I merely touched you.”

 

“And then kept going,” Prince Dean says, not quite leaning in. There isn’t much space in which to lean.

 

“As I said,” Castiel repeats, “you’re very distracting.”

 

Prince Dean’s eyes lift to where the removal of the mask ruffled Castiel’s hair. They fall to Castiel’s mouth and daringly plummet to where Castiel still palms his hip. He looks back up to Castiel’s face in a long, slow drag of half-hooded eyes.

 

“ _I’m_ distracting,” Prince Dean says.

 

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “You are.”

 

Again, Prince Dean licks his lips. “Maybe we should take the edge off. Just a little. So you can focus.”

 

Castiel inhales deeply before shaking his head. He presses back against the table, intentionally pinning his wings.

 

Prince Dean shifts back the slightest amount, as far as Castiel will let him. “Can I ask why not?”

 

“I want to keep feeling like this,” Castiel says, which is not the correct answer. He cannot think of the correct answer, because it wouldn’t involve the human in front of him, and he can think of nothing else.

 

“Feeling like what?” In the small space between them, Prince Dean reaches. His hand brushes against the front of Castiel’s shirts before settling against the side of his face. A warm thumb hidden behind leather touches the corner of his mouth, and Castiel’s eyes close. Castiel does not close his eyes; they close themselves.

 

“Like what, Cas?” Prince Dean repeats. His thumb brushes over Castiel’s lips until Castiel stills it with a kiss.

 

“Dizzy,” Castiel says. Far beyond what his compromised balance could ever inflict.

 

“Dizzy’s good,” Prince Dean tells him. “Means you can hold onto me.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel says, and it does make its own kind of sense. That his body wants to hold so strongly, his center of gravity has preemptively moved, ready to be shared. He grips Dean’s hip tighter.

 

“You can, you know,” Prince Dean continues, his face close when Castiel wrests open his eyes. “Hold onto me. If you want.” His breath hot, his scent strange and human and familiar, he seems to fill the air itself without moving. “Shit, Cas. You look…”

 

“Yes?” He drags the word from his own throat, its edges rough and hastily crafted.

 

“So fucking overwhelmed,” Prince Dean murmurs, and there is praise in this. His hand cups Castiel’s face, and Castiel leans in hard.

 

“I feel like a lodestone,” Castiel tells him.

 

“Am I iron?” Prince Dean asks.

 

Castiel nods against his hand, eyes again falling shut.

 

“I know it’s fucking scary, Cas, but you’re doing so well,” Prince Dean promises. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Castiel confesses. “With you. I didn’t plan for this. I couldn’t have.”

 

“It’s not something you plan for,” Prince Dean tells him. “It’s something you plan around, all right? And we’re gonna. I got you, I swear, I’ve got you. I’m right there with you, you know that, right?”

 

“Are you?” Castiel asks as something shatters and something mends. Apology wells up and Castiel bites it down.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, Cas, I’m here.” He cups Castiel’s face with both hands. He presses closer, setting forehead against forehead. “Just breathe, man.”

 

Castiel obeys, pulling Prince Dean’s breath into his own lungs. It is the pinnacle of breathing.

 

“We’re gonna take a step back,” Prince Dean tells him. “Calm down a little, look at some cool shit, all that. I’m not gonna push you.”

 

“I’m fine,” Castiel says, eyes again closed, the recollection of closing them again missing.

 

“Dude, you’re bruising the shit out of my hip right now,” Prince Dean says.

 

Castiel releases him in an instant. “My apologies.” Carelessness. So much carelessness. He needs to remember that. Moreover, he needs to remember to care. He places both hands behind him on the table, his wings pressed between its edge and his back.

 

Relinquishing his touch as well, Prince Dean looks down the length of Castiel’s body and swallows. Prince Dean clears his throat and turns his head. “Getting into this underground, in a small room? Probably not my best decision.”

 

“I’m fine,” Castiel repeats.

 

“You have some water,” Prince Dean instructs, pointing to the jug. Presumably. Castiel doesn’t look. “I’m gonna ask about gloves.”

 

Castiel reaches out, just as before, and nearly sets the cycle off anew. “I was going to say,” Castiel tells him, “that you have gloves.”

 

Prince Dean pauses. “I do have gloves.”

 

Castiel nods.

 

“Not sure they’d fit you, though.” His eyes flick to Castiel’s hands on the table. “Your hands are, uh.” His already flushed cheeks brighten further, a soft change Castiel can’t help but stare at.

 

“I thought I might ask your indulgence,” Castiel explains, “and have you assist me.”

 

“I can do that,” Prince Dean answers immediately. “Yeah, we can – yeah. Yeah. Water first? Water first.” He steps to the side before approaching the table fully, as if merely brushing against Castiel is too much to risk. He pours each of them a glass, and Castiel keeps his wings pinched against the table.

 

They drink quietly. This water tastes differently from the water in the library last night. He distantly wonders if the variation in flavor is from the container, if there is some influence exerted by glass or silver upon the taste of water. He presumes there is.

 

“I wasn’t kidding about taking the edge off,” Prince Dean says after a few more moments of near silence. “I get that academic shit calms you down, but. If that would help, too.”

 

“I want to kiss you very much,” Castiel admits, both to himself and to Dean. “But I think I need to work up to it.”

 

Prince Dean stares at him with dark eyes before clearing his throat again. “If we work up to it any more, I think one of us is gonna pass out.”

 

“Even so,” Castiel says. He sets his glass down.

 

Prince Dean copies and moves around Castiel toward the boxes. Castiel leans harder back against the table as he passes. Only with Prince Dean securely in place at his side does Castiel permit himself to turn. He is calmer, marginally, and his wings will not betray him.

 

“This one first,” Prince Dean decides, reaching for the long, thin box. He flips open the clasp before gently lifting the lid, a hand on either side of the clasp. The small hinges give a tiny creek. “Any idea what this one is?”

 

A shining length of silver lies on green velvet. Magelight gleams off the edges, from the razor-sharp tip.

 

Castiel knows exactly what it is. It would be impossible for him not to.

 

“That’s,” Castiel begins to say.

 

Prince Dean looks at him, eyebrows raised.

 

“I _think_ ,” Castiel corrects himself, “that’s an angel blade.”

 

The only question is whose. It must belong to an angel who died in combat, for it to have been manifested at the time of their death. Every angel Castiel knows – every living angel – still has their own blade. Though there are minute differences from blade to blade, the true test of identity is in the grace, and that would require a touch to determine. The curve of the hilt is almost familiar, but Castiel isn’t sure.

 

Prince Dean releases the lid and quietly laughs.

 

Castiel tears his eyes away from the blade to look at him in question.

 

“Sorry,” Prince Dean says. “You just-” he snaps his fingers “-focused like that.”

 

“It’s a skill,” Castiel agrees.

 

“So,” Prince Dean says, looking back down into the box. “Angel blade. Self-explanatory name.” He shifts to the side, indicating that Castiel ought to come closer and look, which he does. Then Prince Dean shifts back, and Castiel feels a slow petting on his wings which the prince must believe he can’t feel. “Why do you think that’s what it is?”

 

“The markings on the boxes are the first hint,” Castiel says. “They’re warding against angels.” As long as Castiel himself doesn’t touch either box, there is no harm in revealing this, especially to a human who doesn’t believe in his species.

 

“Definitely on the right track, then,” Prince Dean says. There’s still doubt in his voice, but Castiel is hardly going to chide him now. “What else? The metal’s weird, I’ll give you that. Looks like silver but it can’t be. You don’t get an edge like that on silver. Believe me, we’ve tried.”

 

“They’re said to be a physical manifestation of an angel’s grace,” Castiel explains.

 

“Grace?”

 

“A combination of magic and life force. Not entwined like a chimera’s or linked like your brother’s, but one and the same.”

 

“Would that work like Sam?” Prince Dean asks, his expression moving from bemused to serious. Castiel’s still guessing based on Dean’s tones, but it’s much easier than it was mere days ago. “Use the magic, drain the life?”

 

“Your brother would have to drain all of his magic before he began to drain his life,” Castiel corrects. “But yes, that’s the essence of it.”

 

“So let’s say this _is_ the blade of a banished angel,” Prince Dean supposes.

 

“Or perhaps a slain angel,” Castiel interjects.

 

“Nuh-uh,” Prince Dean says. “I was listening to you and Sammy having your angel chat. Angel dies, the magic goes, the wings burn off, right? And you were talking about that vessel artificer whose stuff crapped out when he died. You put your life force in an item, it snuffs it when you do.”

 

“Life force is different from grace.”

 

“Assuming it is,” Prince Dean says, “and that’s a great big assumption in the first place, there’s still the question of why the wings would burn off but a blade would stick around.”

 

Because the main force of an angel’s grace is centered in the wings, and the final release of this has immense, incinerating power.

 

Because grace can stabilize outside of the body, which is how angels form their blades in the first place.

 

Because of too many reasons Castiel can’t admit to knowing.

 

“Dean, if I knew everything, I wouldn’t need to research,” Castiel says instead.

 

“Just want to make sure you’re not theorizing without evidence,” Prince Dean says, his smirk implying otherwise. He stops stroking Castiel’s wings only as long as Castiel looks at him.

 

“There are secondary sources,” Castiel says. “Mentions of angels fighting with the blades of fallen comrades.”

 

Hannah kept Anna’s. Balthazar had been the one to recover it in the aftermath of her attack and subsequent slaying, but he hadn’t wanted it. He’d claimed it clashed too strongly with his own grace for him to keep it inside his arm. Uriel hadn’t wanted it either, and Castiel believes Uriel’s reasons are the same as his own. The constant reminder would be too much.

 

“As a supplemental weapon?” Prince Dean asks.

 

“A second blade could serve as such, yes.”

 

Prince Dean shakes his head. “No, I mean, it’s pretty short for a primary weapon.”

 

It’s the perfect range when fighting with one’s wings. Castiel does not say this.

 

“Perhaps,” he says instead.

 

“Back to my point,” Prince Dean continues, resuming the slow petting as well. “If it is a real angel blade made of real angel grace, do you know how you could prove that?”

 

“A fake could be destroyed,” Castiel answers. He does not lean back into Prince Dean’s touch, and he does not adjust his stance to guide that hand to a better spot. He stands still and pretends all of his attention is on the item before him, as it should be. “A real one would never rust, tarnish, or dull. Heat wouldn’t melt it, and no degree of cold would turn it brittle.”

 

“Because it wouldn’t be metal,” Prince Dean reasons. “It’d be a shaped spell and would just keep holding that shape.”

 

Castiel looks to him in surprise. “Exactly.” He’s never considered manifesting his blade as spellwork, but the accuracy of it is undeniable.

 

“You don’t have to look so surprised,” Prince Dean chides. “If I know a thing or two about anything, it’s weapons.”

 

“No, I…” Castiel shakes his head and moves the conversation toward safety. “Thank you for indulging me. I know you don’t believe in angels.”

 

“You do,” Prince Dean says, shrugging. “That’s enough.”

 

Castiel makes a smile with his mouth. If he leaned just a little to the side, his shoulder would press against Prince Dean’s chest, and their faces would be very close. Prince Dean would be able to pet his far wing.

 

They look at each other too long.

 

Prince Dean looks away first. “Would it be okay if I picked it up?”

 

In a somewhat surreal moment, Castiel nods permission to the prince of the castle.

 

Prince Dean abandons his petting and turns fully toward the table. His hand wraps around the hilt and he hefts it with ease. “The balance is good,” he says immediately. “A little heavier than I would have thought, though.” He shifts, turning back to Castiel and showing him the blade. “Don’t see any markings on it.” He turns it over in his hands. “Looks like the blade and the hilt are all one piece, too. Huh.”

 

“A single piece would be a simpler spell,” Castiel says, a piece of conversational filler. He’s observed that this is a very human way of speaking.

 

“All right, so,” Prince Dean says, “if this is real, there’s nothing I could do that would hurt it.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“And if it’s a replica or something, how much do you care?”

 

“A fair amount, but not as much.”

 

Prince Dean shifts the hilt into his left hand and brings his right hand to his mouth. He bites the middle fingertip of his glove and pulls. With a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, he switches to his index finger for another tug, his eyes on Castiel’s the entire time as he bites and tugs. Once it’s off, he drops the glove onto the table. Then he touches his finger to the flat of the blade. He pulls the touch away and looks. “No fingerprint.” He tries again. “Definitely enchanted, I’ll give you that.”

 

“That’s how you test?”

 

Prince Dean shrugs. “I could draw up a spell or two, but that’s just faster.” Looking intently at the blade, he touches the edge of it before Castiel can tell him not to. A bead of red joins the silver, but no light shines out from beneath his skin. “Wow.”

 

Castiel finds himself holding Prince Dean’s hand, drawing it away from the blade.

 

“That didn’t even hurt,” Prince Dean reassures him. “Stinging a little after, though.”

 

“It’s very sharp,” Castiel says needlessly, inspecting the tiny wound. The lack of light is peculiar, but Prince Dean doesn’t seem alarmed. Humans must not shine when cut.

 

“You gonna heal me up, Cas?” Prince Dean asks, watching him with what Castiel recognizes as amusement.

 

The words take a moment to sink in. He looks up into green eyes that are once again so very close to his own. “What?”

 

“You’re a healer mage, right?” Prince Dean says, clearly expecting an answer in the affirmative. Why, Castiel has no idea.

 

He settles on replying, “I don’t recall mentioning that to you.”

 

“Sam told me,” Prince Dean answers, as if this is a true explanation.

 

“I definitely didn’t tell him,” Castiel says, and then the thought occurs. “Did he have a vision of me?” A second thought: “Is someone going to be hurt?”

 

Prince Dean shakes his head. “No and no.” He pauses, just fractionally, before shaking his head again. “No. Sammy was talking with his new best friend Nick – that doctor in the wolf mask last night – and they were chatting about new touch healing techniques. That’s Nick’s big thing, it’s why the Royal Hospital was so desperate to snatch him up. Anyway, Sam explained how you’re keeping these on.” He rakes his eyes over Castiel’s shoulders, across his wings. “Pretty awesome, gotta say.”

 

“What was his guess?” Castiel asks.

 

“Minor necromancy, based on reattaching severed limbs,” Prince Dean says. “Didn’t know touch healing was advancing so far in that direction.”

 

That… is not what Castiel would have expected to hear, had he thought to expect anything at all.

 

“Most people disapprove of necromancy, minor or not,” he says diplomatically. It’s a reason for hesitance, which is a reason for not explaining the “spell” sooner.

 

Prince Dean shrugs again. “It’s not like you’re trying to raise the dead to make slaves. Besides, if you guys do figure out how to permanently re-attach legs and shit, that’d be huge. And it’s not like you’ve got any other way of practicing without losing bits of your own.” Again, he eyes Castiel’s wings. “Pretty dramatic way to practice, too.”

 

Seeking a distraction from the subject, Castiel wraps his hand around Prince Dean’s index finger. If Prince Dean thinks him a touch healer, a touch healer he will be. Borrowing a human gesture, Castiel brings their hands before his mouth. He presses his lips against his first knuckle as he slips a thread of grace beneath Prince Dean’s skin. It’s the slightest nudge to coax the life force he finds there back to its full dimensions. His hand around the tiny cut is enough to conceal the light of it closing, and even if it weren’t, he holds Dean’s gaze the entire time. It is a very pleasant feeling, to press his grace against Dean’s life.

 

“...That’s a pretty dramatic way to practice, too,” Prince Dean says after a pause, his voice abruptly deeper, the way Castiel likes it best. Then he blinks and pulls his hand back to look at his healed finger. “Wait, did you just dual cast?”

 

If his wings are meant to be a spell, the answer is clear. “Yes?”

 

Prince Dean blinks at him again. “Seriously? Two different spells at once?”

 

“Is it that surprising?” He could have sworn humans could do that.

 

“You’re that powerful of a mage, and you’ve never even mentioned,” Prince Dean says, somewhere between question and accusation.

 

“I… Should I have?” Castiel asks. He narrows his eyes naturally and pulls down his brow intentionally for a more human rendition of confusion. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

 

“Most people make it relevant,” Prince Dean says, still unnervingly unreadable. “Nothing more interesting than magic and all.”

 

“I don’t see why,” Castiel answers, and something in Prince Dean’s expression changes. “This is far more interesting.” He gestures to the boxes, because if Prince Dean seeks to please him, it’s best he know for certain which way Castiel’s pleasure lies.

 

Prince Dean merely stares at him. “Seriously, Cas,” he says. “How are you even real?”

 

Castiel has no idea what to make of this. Assuming some sort of joke, he jests in return. “I’m not,” he says, and nods toward his wings. “I’m an angel.”

 

A laugh bursts out of Prince Dean, brightening his features immeasurably. “Sure you are,” he says, and he runs his bare hand over the wrist of Castiel’s left wing. “What are they, griffin wings?”

 

“Angel wings,” Castiel corrects.

 

Prince Dean laughs again, though much more softly than before. “Uh-huh. Sure.” With his gloved hand, he offers the blade’s hilt. “Care to complete the ensemble?”

 

Castiel nods. He uses both hands, his right around the hilt, his left beneath the flat of the blade. The sensation of grace against his skin is more recognizable than any touch of the hand.

 

He knows this blade.

 

He knows this grace.

 

 _Michael_.

 

“You all right, Cas?”

 

Castiel can’t move. He stares down at the blade in his hands. At the last trace of Archangel Michael, lying across his palms.

 

How did it get here?

 

Castiel remembers that day, as much as he might wish otherwise. The last blast of Gabriel’s horn. Wind and arrows ripping against his wings as their ranks plummeted down onto the demons below. Lucifer’s bellows of pain in the distance, shaking the ground as his wings were severed.

 

He remembers the retreating waves of demonic forces, after. Raphael kneeling in blood and dust, the ash of two brothers’ wings burned across him, the ruins of a third bloody and rent before him. Gabriel’s broken horn, his blade in Raphael’s hand.

 

Michael, lifeless and unmoving, his wounds red and dim, flickering until they no longer shone at all. Gabriel, already dark. Both almost unrecognizable without their wings.

 

“Cas?” Prince Dean asks again, his hand light on Castiel’s elbow. “You wanna breathe there, buddy?”

 

Castiel breathes. He looks up into Dean’s eyes and back down at the blade. He wonders what is reasonable to say.

 

“It feels like a person,” Castiel tells him.

 

“What, are you trying to heal it?” Prince Dean asks.

 

Assuming human touch healing works the same way as grace healing, the comparison is not inapt. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

 

“Because it’s made out of angel life force?”

 

Castiel nods. “It’s definitely made out of life force.”

 

Prince Dean looks at the blade with new respect, the respect it deserves. An archangel’s blade. “Huh.”

 

Loathe to relinquish the last touch of his old commander’s grace, Castiel hands it back slowly. Sentimentality aside, they’ve wasted too much time on this one box. They’ve a second to look through, and then Castiel will have a long night scanning through the immense logbook in search of more leads.

 

Gently, Prince Dean lays the blade back in its box. He doesn’t shut the lid, for which Castiel is grateful. He reaches for the second box.

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

Hands outstretched, Prince Dean freezes.

 

Castiel passes him his discarded glove. As his excuse for not touching the boxes himself, he has to commit to it.

 

“Right, sorry,” Prince Dean says. He holds out his hand. “Put it on?”

 

It’s not the smoothest process – Castiel has never dressed anyone besides himself before – but he manages fairly quickly. It’s essentially the opposite of preening someone.

 

“Someone’s eager,” Prince Dean says with a low chuckle.

 

Castiel looks up from straightening the glove and into dark eyes. “Yes,” he says plainly, making no attempt to dissemble. Even if it can’t be the right tablet, it will serve as a template for Prince Dean should Castiel convince him to further aid in his search.

 

His eyes dropping to Castiel’s mouth, Prince Dean licks his own lips. He sways forward all of an inch before turning his head away sharply, exhaling hard. It would be easy to pull him back. Very easy.

 

Containing his wants the same way he prevents the motions of his wings, Castiel releases Prince Dean’s hand. “You said it was a tablet?” he prompts.

 

“Yeah, looked like what you described as angel mail,” Prince Dean replies. Almost casually, he flips the clasp on the box and lifts the lid. “Whoever sent it, it must have been some important message for demons to waylay it that hard. No idea about the writing, though. A couple of the symbols look almost like the warding on the boxes. I’m thinking… Cas?”

 

The stone is dark, the carvings light. The script small and angular, funneled down columns. The incantation. The power forged between three archangels, a feat now beyond replicating.

 

Castiel hears Dean speaking without hearing him.

 

This is it.

 

Directly before him, lying in a box he cannot touch nor remove objects from. It’s here.

 

It’s right here.

 

A hand touches Castiel’s shoulder. It squeezes harder than Castiel has grown to expect it to.

 

Castiel looks at Prince Dean and Prince Dean looks back and the tablet is still right _there_.

 

“So what do you think?” Prince Dean asks. His grin is soft, his eyes concerned but lovely.

 

Castiel thinks:

 

He needs Dean to take it out of the box.

 

And:

 

If the demons had it, they would have used it; why didn’t they use it?

 

There must be a mistake in the castle records.

 

Dean will take it out of the box for him.

 

His mission is complete.

 

His mission is complete once it’s out of the box.

 

And in his hands.

 

And the portal opens in several hours.

 

Castiel needs it out of the box, in his hands, by the portal, in several hours.

 

How many hours?

 

What time is it?

 

Aloud, he says, “This is more than I’d dared hope for. Dean, I. Can I.”

 

No, he’s not meant to hold it, skin to stone. The excuse of the gloves needs to continue.

 

He formulates a plan:

 

He must find a pretense for Dean to move the tablet to sit directly on the table.

 

He will ask Dean to get him gloves as well.

 

While Dean is turned away, or possibly even absent from the room entirely, Castiel will take the tablet and tuck it under his belt and wings, holding it there.

 

He will leave the castle under the threat of immediate discovery. Being presumed human, the means used to stop him will all prove ineffectual. The timing of the portal will make his return difficult, or will at least fill the hours until that return with conflict and avoidable bloodshed. He can avoid most by taking to the sky once outside, but there will certainly be some.

 

They will break free of their banishment into a world that sees them as aggressors and thieves, and this will be Castiel’s doing.

 

“Can you what?” Dean asks.

 

“I don’t know where to start,” Castiel confesses.

 

That is a bad plan. He has no doubt Raphael would consider them acceptable human casualties in the name of their escape, but that is nevertheless a bad plan.

 

He formulates a new plan, which is to bide time to make a better plan.

 

“Can I see the provenance?” Castiel asks.

 

“Yeah, it’s in the logbook,” Dean says. “It’s marked with the, uh. Green ribbon, yeah.”

 

Nodding, Castiel does the impossible and steps away from the tablet. They both go to the immense tome, and Prince Dean helps him open it in the belief that this book is very heavy.

 

“See, it’s this lot here,” Prince Dean tells him, running his finger under the appropriate line of half-faded handwriting. “Listed by year, stronghold, sets of items, and descriptions of items.”

 

Unless a mistake of colossal stupidity occurred in the documentation, this is correct. Both blade and tablet were in the possession of demons, and yet both went unused.

 

The tablet could have unleashed their full forces. All it required was sending the tablet to that realm of banishment. Could they somehow not find the way? To go unused, that isn’t inaction. That is inability. It has to be. None of it makes any sense, but that is the only reasonable answer.

 

Demons can create portals, and did so during the war with devastating results. They did so for much lower stakes than unleashing the vast majority of their army, as well as returning Lucifer himself to their world. Surely they could have managed this, and yet, somehow, they hadn’t.

 

The blade makes even less sense. Forged of the grace of an archangel, it can harm any creature, of any magical strength. Surely its usefulness would be blindingly obvious. Demons never hesitated in claiming and using the blades of deceased angels during the war, one of the reasons so few mementos of their fallen comrades remain: common practice had changed to recalling their blades inside their bodies before death in order to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands.

 

Even if they thought it only the blade of an ordinary angel, it would be a prized weapon, and wielded by any demon of high stature who wished to flaunt that status. Why the warded box instead? Why warded against angels when the demons know the angels are gone?

 

“Got a theory to share with the class, Cas?”

 

“Not yet,” Castiel answers, eyes narrowed at the graying ink on the page.

 

These are questions for later, he decides. Procuring the tablet comes before all else.

 

“I’d like to take notes,” Castiel tells Prince Dean, stalling for time to formulate a better plan. “Would you mind being ignored for a short while?”

 

“Kinda figured that was where tonight was going,” Prince Dean replies with a small sigh. “Knock yourself out, man.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and he has never meant anything more.

 

He starts with the pretense of copying. It’s busywork, an excuse to think. The symbols are familiar, the make of the pen less so. He explains his slow progress by continually looking between tablet and paper, going so far as to estimate the size of some sigils against the length of his thumb. He writes and he thinks.

 

Until now, reaching his goal has been more important than concern for collateral damage. With it in reach, it’s time to consider.

 

Outright theft tonight will lead to disastrous relations between their peoples. The tablet’s absence will be noticed immediately. His skill with illusions is poor and his grace cannot touch the box, not even to create the image of a tablet inside it. Perhaps he could find a means of creating a physical copy in the seventeen hours he will have back in their realm, but this strategy requires that he return down here tomorrow night, which he may not be able to contrive.

 

Provided he did manage the switch, and that is a gamble he would prefer not to make, the truth of his deception would readily become clear once the sky cracks open and his people return. Even if the humans didn’t notice the tablet had been replaced, Prince Dean is pragmatic enough to put the events together once confronted with the undeniable reality of angels. And once inquiries are made at Seer Shurley’s university, Prince Dean will learn that no human named Castiel has ever worked there.

 

It occurs to Castiel now that nothing can keep his deception hidden.

 

It’s something obvious, something he knows, and something he has not permitted himself to think about.

 

He looks at Prince Dean and, watching him idly trace the warding on the blade’s box, he understands why.

 

Prince Dean will know, the kingdom will know, and the kingdom will think Prince Dean a fool.

 

Castiel has done this.

 

No.

 

Castiel is _doing_ this.

 

It’s unavoidable now, and so Castiel does not seek to avoid it.

 

He copies the tablet in full, his writing small and cramped though legible. Below, he copies the first symbol again and begins to write variations of translation in the only human script he’s practiced. The magic of his being gifts him the secrets of languages only so far. He takes care to write the words from left to right, rather than list them downward as it makes sense to do.

 

“What’re you doing?” Prince Dean asks, looking over his shoulder. They sit in armless chairs, Castiel sideways with the chair’s back on his left. Prince Dean sits on his right.

 

“This was the language at the time,” Castiel tells him. He points to the drying ink. “This one could mean a wide variety of things based on context and position. At the top of the column, it has–”

 

“No, I mean,” Prince Dean interrupts, “your writing is painfully tiny. We do have more paper.” He pats the small stack of it for emphasis. It must be some ten or fifteen pages, each sheet thick and crisp and pristine.

 

Castiel looks between the stack, his notes, and Prince Dean in turn. These notes are unnecessary other than as a bid for time and a commitment to his role. He is already wasting paper, to say nothing of ink. Just this much is already more than Castiel has used in over six hundred years.

 

To be absolutely certain, he asks, “I could use… all of it?” It’s a ridiculous question.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Prince Dean says, which is an even more ridiculous answer. “I mean, if you’re going to be at it that long, I guess I should have brought a book along, but yeah.”

 

Castiel stares at him.

 

Prince Dean looks uncomfortable. “Dude, it’s just paper.”

 

Castiel keeps staring. He makes himself say, “Thank you.”

 

After a minute or so of watching Castiel write, Prince Dean asks, “How underfunded are you?”

 

“Very,” Castiel answers without looking up. He’s too busy thinking and certainly too intent on ignoring the way Dean keeps playing with his wings. The human lifts individual feathers before smoothing them back down, and it’s enough to slowly drive an angel mad.

 

“You don’t have enough for paper?”

 

Castiel does look up at that, mostly because the petting has stopped, Dean’s fingers going still against his wing. “We make do.”

 

“‘We’? Finding it hard to believe Chuck is in that much financial hardship,” Prince Dean says, skepticism plain in his voice.

 

“Seer Shurley and I have different degrees of access to resources,” Castiel replies. “But this project is primarily mine. He’s not contributing financially, nor have I asked him to.”

 

Prince Dean shakes his head. “Seriously, Cas, once you finish this thing up, I’m telling you: Men of Letters. We give our support staff the support they need back.”

 

“Perhaps,” Castiel says. Then he pulls another sheet of paper toward him and asks, “Would you turn the tablet over, please? I want to see if there’s anything to transcribe on the back.”

 

Carefully, Prince Dean lifts the tablet from the warded box. He holds it in his hands, well within Castiel’s reach. He turns it over, and Castiel could take it from him with ease.

 

The moment hangs in the air.

 

It passes.

 

Prince Dean returns the tablet to the box, the underside now revealed, and Castiel sits with pen in hand, having done nothing.

 

Castiel could ask him to turn it over again. That possibility still very much exists. Castiel could smudge the ink, still wet, on his first page of notes, and that would be excuse enough. It would lead to a blatant theft with immediate consequences, but it is still very much possible.

 

He needs to find another way. When the inevitable look of betrayal crosses Dean’s features, Castiel must be somewhere very far away.

 

His chest is tight. The muscles of his wings are tighter. Dean touches his right wing, low, fingers wrapping around an individual flight feather. The contact is furtive, the grip loose. The intent is reverent. It’s too much.

 

Castiel looks sharply, as if having just noticed. Dean looks back at him, his hand very much still around the vane of his flight feather.

 

“It looked soft,” Dean says, as if this is a valid excuse.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says.

 

“You know, I think this is a good compromise on me keeping my hands to myself.” Even while relaying that deeply flawed argument, Dean lets go.

 

“Concentrating is already very difficult,” Castiel tells him.

 

Dean’s head lifts up, as if making it only halfway through a nod.

 

Castiel tilts his head in a question.

 

“This is what you’ve been looking for, right?” Dean asks, and Castiel does not flinch or blink or react. “You find a way to verify the authenticity here and there you go, solid proof of angels existing. That whole banishment theory of yours gets a lot more weight.”

 

When Dean seems to expect some sort of answer, Castiel replies, “Yes?”

 

“I just thought you’d be happier, that’s all,” Dean says, and there is something small in his voice Castiel cannot withstand.

 

He sets down the pen and takes Dean’s hand and hates his gloves and says, “I haven’t thanked you. That was remiss of me.”

 

“Cas, that’s not what I’m–” Dean shakes his head. He looks at Castiel in a way Castiel doesn’t understand, but would like to. “I thought you’d be relieved. You had ridiculous expectations hanging over your head, research at a party, but you fulfilled them.” He gestures at the items on the table with the hand not in Castiel’s. “Seriously, did your patron think you were going to pull something this significant out of your ass?”

 

“Not out of that specific cavity, no,” Castiel replies.

 

Dean grins. “So you’re doing great. C’mon, man, you get to _relax_ now.”

 

“I need to finish transcribing this first.”

 

“It’s here, and it’s not going anywhere,” Dean reassures him, which is the opposite of reassuring. “Look, a finding this big, you’ve got an excuse to stick around longer. We’ve got two more nights for this party, if you count tonight, and then no one’s gonna mind if you’re down here for a week while everyone else is running around doing wedding prep.”

 

“Dean, I’ve already told you I can’t stay.” It would be ample time to plan, but it would strip away his excuse for his wings. He could attempt to conceal them with illusions, but he has no faith in his abilities and every certainty of Dean seeking to touch him further. Visible, decorative wings are one thing; invisible yet tangible wings are another. Beyond this, the sheer amount of energy that goes into opening each portal for him is immense. They’ve already opened more portals this year than they usually attempt in a decade, and the exhaustion has begun to show. “Lodging and transport is already arranged.”

 

“You telling me this doesn’t change anything?” Dean asks, and Castiel knows what to do. He sees the answer. He sees each verbal step required to disarm and pin his opponent.

 

He begins the attack by jerking his head back. He looks to the boxes, to Dean, without turning his head. Despite being the one holding on, he begins to withdraw his hand.

 

He asks, “Is this a bribe?”

 

Dean pulls back his own hand. “What? _No_. Why would you–”

 

“I’m well aware His Majesty seeks to buy my cooperation and silence,” Castiel interrupts, pressing forward.

 

“I’m not my father,” Dean tells him, drawing up.

 

“I know, which is why I am asking,” Castiel hastens to say. “Many think a poor man is easily bought.”

 

“Cas, I’m not trying to _buy_ you. I’m–”

 

“You want me to break promises I have already made to those who trust me,” Castiel states, speaking as calmly as possible in the face of Dean’s protests. “I have to go home after tomorrow night. That’s non-negotiable. As much as I–” He cuts himself off, a verbal feint. “That’s non-negotiable. Even for you.”

 

“As much as you what?” Dean asks, taking the bait. He leans forward in his seat. His fingertips touch the side of Castiel’s leg. “You want to stay.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“But you want to.”

 

“Yes.” In this world, with skies and wind and music and dancing. With Dean. “I want more than five nights with you.”

 

Dean’s hand shifts fully atop Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel covers it with his own. “We’re gonna get more than five, Cas. Yeah, maybe Dad’s trying to put a leash on you, but that Man of Letters position is real and waiting for you. You can live here, in the capital, and afford all the fucking paper you need. Even if we don’t work out, you have that. That’s yours, you earned it with Sam.

 

“And, yeah, I’m gone a lot, there’s patrols and shit. I’m heading out on one after Sammy’s wedding, even, but I always come back. We can have all the nights you want. Days, too. In between, you could have all the research time you can stand, check out all the other unidentified crap we have here. I know it’s not angels, but it’s good work, and we could be together.”

 

Castiel squeezes his hand. “Before I consider that, I need to finish my current project. I’m bound to it.”

 

“I’m not telling you to quit, Cas,” Dean assures him. “I’m just asking you to switch, after.”

 

Castiel rubs his thumb over leather, a poor substitute for skin. Using his feet, he shifts the chair slightly, the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor. The side of his left wing digs into the chair back and the chair back taps against the edge of the table, but he does manage to better sit facing Dean. “If I’m to finish this, I need to dedicate as much time as I can to studying the tablet, so I can return home with as complete a set of notes as possible. The speed with which I finish is dependent on that. I don’t want to neglect you tonight or tomorrow, but, as I told you, I didn’t come here to socialize.”

 

“Kinda thought you’d rather be researching anyway,” Dean remarks, cavalier, almost dismissive in tone. He leans too far forward for it to be true. He watches Castiel too intently.

 

“I’d thought so, too,” Castiel says, and he slips his thumb between Dean’s palm and his own thigh. “I’m… unnerved by what my priorities have become.”

 

“Would you rather be dancing with me upstairs?” Dean asks, his eyes intent, his voice steady.

 

Castiel lowers his eyes and, with great effort, manages to smile with only his mouth at the thought. At the memories. He lifts his gaze back to Dean’s face and says, “Yes. But I– There’s no sense in repeating myself, least of all for being limited for time.”

 

“Have you never heard of asking for help?” Dean asks him. “That’s not rhetorical. You _do_ know that’s a thing you can do, right?”

 

Castiel frowns, using his mouth as well as his forehead. “Dean?”

 

“We can transfer it to the university, you dumbass,” Dean tells him. “What kind of genius are you?”

 

Castiel looks from Dean to the tablet. He thinks of Dean’s generosity with the paper and tries to let the same uncomprehending surprise fill his body. He looks back to Dean, and Dean is smiling.

 

“You’d do that?” Castiel asks, as if this wasn’t the precise offer he’d herded Dean towards.

 

“Yeah, I’d do that,” Dean says, and this is Castiel’s victory. It does not feel like victory, but perhaps that will come in time. When his people are free, surely Castiel will be happy.

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says. “Dean, I–”

 

Dean holds up his free hand, his palm toward Castiel. “It’s not a bribe. It’s not me buying you. If I can help, I do. That’s how this works. So finish up your notes, get whatever you need to tide you over for a week or two until delivery day, and then we can go upstairs and have some fun. All right?”

 

“I’m going to kiss you first,” Castiel decides. It is not a decision he makes. It is a decision that simply happens.

 

“I take it back, you’re still a genius,” Dean says.

 

He leans forward and Castiel leans forward, and then Dean stands and tugs at his sleeve, and Castiel stands. Their chairs scrape back behind them. His flight feathers pull across the seat. Dean’s hand cups his cheek and lifts his face. Castiel’s arms slide around Dean’s waist and hold him as close as dancing. Castiel closes his eyes and lifts his chin higher. He feels Dean’s breath before he feels his lips, and they are impossibly softer, impossibly warmer than that already warm air.

 

Castiel presses back. With his mouth. With his hands. With a full-bodied lean up into Dean. Two hands frame his face now. Two hands guide him to tilt his head, to hold still for more motions of a mouth against his. It is soft and firm and made of the gentleness born of restraint.

 

Dean tilts his face downward, toward Castiel, their foreheads touching, their noses brushing. Their mouths part. Castiel presses up, begins to press up, and ultimately obeys the guiding pressure of Dean’s hands.

 

“Relax,” Dean whispers between them. One of his hands shifts from Castiel’s face to his hair. “We got time, Cas.”

 

They don’t.

 

“Then use it to kiss me,” Castiel instructs.

 

Dean does.

 

He draws back again to repeat, “Seriously, relax.”

 

Castiel can’t.

 

He keeps his wings still. He keeps his strength in check. He aligns his breathing to Dean’s, having no concept of how heavily he ought to be breathing. He holds Dean by the waist, thumbs hooked into his belt on either side, tethering him in place. He moves his mouth in the small motions Dean shows him, strange pinches and pulls using only the lips.

 

When he feels a sudden touch of wetness, it takes him a moment to understand. He parts his lips and loosens his jaw to touch tongue to tongue, but Dean breaks the kiss to murmur, “Yeah, like that,” against Castiel’s mouth. Dean strokes his cheek with a gloved hand, and Castiel can no longer stand it.

 

He lifts one hand from Dean’s waist to better catch the hand against his face. He draws it down between their chests and uses both his hands to strip off the offending piece of clothing.

 

Dean huffs a laugh against Castiel’s lips. “Don’t like my gloves, huh?” He kisses the corner of Castiel’s mouth while offering his other hand.

 

“I hate them very much,” Castiel answers, and Dean laughs again.

 

Returning a hand to Castiel’s hair, Dean scrapes his fingernails against Castiel’s scalp. Castiel leans into the touch, eyes falling closed, mouth falling open. His wings flex, and Castiel catches at Dean’s unoccupied hand to ensure he won’t reach back and feel the strain in those muscles.

 

Dean’s kisses rove from his mouth to his cheek, his jaw. “You don’t like how leather feels?” He guides Castiel’s hands back to his own body, and tactics war against temptation.

 

“It doesn’t feel like you,” Castiel explains. He digs both thumbs into Dean’s palm in appreciation. The kiss pressed against his jawline presses even harder, and Castiel turns his head to catch it. Their mouths find each other, and it’s much easier with his jaw relaxed. So that’s what Dean meant.

 

This time when Dean touches Castiel’s lips with his tongue, Castiel better knows what to do. He touches tongue to tongue, and there is flavor, sudden and wet and strange. But then Dean withdraws, only to return when Castiel doesn’t pursue. Castiel gives chase the second time, his tongue touching lips and teeth and tongue again.

 

Dean tastes human. Though lacking all other descriptors, Castiel knows this much. As Dean’s tongue moves against his, he fears that this of all things will be the moment of his discovery, that surely Dean must know what humans taste like and recognize Castiel as other, but the moment stretches and stretches without ever shattering. Perhaps Dean accepts Castiel’s taste as readily as he accepts his scent. Castiel cradles Dean’s hand against his chest, holding on.

 

Pressing closer, Dean tilts his head and holds Castiel where he wants him. Their mouths open wider, lips sliding. Fast then slow, smooth then flicking, Dean plays his tongue against Castiel’s as if searching for something, seeking some reaction beyond sheer over-stimulation. Just what he’s after, Castiel doesn’t understand, not until Dean’s lips tighten and he _pulls_ at Castiel’s tongue with all his mouth.

 

A deep groan rumbles out of Castiel’s throat. His hands fly to Dean’s shoulders, to his back, to his nape. He presses closer and Dean stumbles back a step, catching himself with one hand on the table, one hand still on the back of Castiel’s head. Their mouths do not part. Their mouths cannot be permitted to part.

 

Dean sucks at him again, firm and slow and constant, drawing him into the heat of his mouth. Castiel is inside him. Not with his hands, forcing viscera back into a wound. Not with his grace, mending with healing or slicing as his blade. He is within Dean, not for violence or to repair from violence, but for the mere sensation of it. For the consuming joy of closeness.

 

Tongue flicking lightly at Castiel even as he sucks, Dean pulls another deep noise out of Castiel and into his own mouth. Anything Dean does resulting in that noise, Dean does again. He finds variations. He teases. He hums with pleasure when Castiel endeavors to cut his teasing short.

 

Dean breathes heavily through his nose, and Castiel copies. Dean’s chest rises and falls with a thrumming heart, and Castiel copies. Dean cups his nape and kisses him and kisses him and _kisses him_ , and Castiel copies, every last inch.

 

Pulling back for a moment is a moment too long, but Dean does it anyway. He tilts his head in the opposite direction and readily allows Castiel to draw him back in. This time, Castiel opens his mouth. Dean enters him in turn, warm and wet and seeking.

 

His hands roam Dean’s back, the barren yet unblemished expanse of it. Beneath cloth, there is skin and musculature and bone, and beneath that, within Castiel’s arms, there is Dean himself. Castiel performs the same sampling method Dean had used on him, motions of mouth and tongue. He finds that Dean prefers teasing. Dean prefers slowing almost to a stop before resuming with a snap of need. Dean prefers a great many things, and Castiel seeks them out in passionate diligence until Dean’s hand leaves his hair for his wings.

 

Those fingers close. They clench. They fist in his scapular feathers. Castiel halts their endless kissing to rasp, “Don’t.”

 

“Need to hold onto you,” Dean answers, sounding like dizziness itself.

 

“Here.” He tugs at Dean’s elbow, pulls at his forearm, and presses Dean’s hand against his upper torso. He pulls at Dean’s other arm, bringing each of Dean’s hands to mirror the other, and he wraps his own arms around Dean’s back to trap him in place. The position makes it seem as if Dean is about to push him away, and it fails to satisfy until Dean grips his shoulders hard, thumbs dipping over Castiel’s clavicles.

 

“Not normally the one being held,” Dean murmurs. He looks down at Castiel, eyes dark and hazy. His mouth is red and wet and somehow plumper than Castiel has ever seen it.

 

“Let me,” Castiel asks.

 

“Fuck yes,” Dean answers, nuzzling closer. They press kisses to each other’s mouths, each a breathless little thing despite all the air in the room. Then Dean leans down and draws Castiel’s bottom lip between his own, between his teeth, and this is yet another new variation. How many ways are there?

 

With another groan, Castiel pulls back enough to say, “Show me.”

 

“What?” Dean says, eyes half-lidded. He immediately leans in, negating those scant inches, and kisses the corner of Castiel’s mouth again. He kisses Castiel’s cheek, and Castiel has never before considered how much cheek there is between mouth and ear. It’s a long and winding path, and it distracts him thoroughly. “Show you what?” Dean asks, directly into Castiel’s ear. One of his hands sneaks higher, escaping the confines of Castiel’s arms in order to return to his hair.

 

Castiel can’t seem to open his eyes. “Whatever you like best.”

 

Dean chuckles hard, and everything inside of Castiel seems to coil tighter. “Cas, sweetheart, we don’t have time. Or a couch.” His tongue touches Castiel’s earlobe, which is very strange but not unpleasant. “Mostly the couch.”

 

“We have a table,” Castiel begins to say, just as Dean’s lips close around his earlobe. Each wet pull, each scrape of teeth sends a corresponding sensation to elsewhere in Castiel’s body, an unexpected variation on sympathetic magic.

 

“Hm?” Dean asks without releasing him. His other hand escapes as well, dropping low to Castiel’s hip. Now when Castiel pulls him closer, there’s no barrier of arms between them. Their bodies align all the way down. Their feet try to stand in the same space. Their waists collide, pressing tight, and Castiel groans at the heat, ducking his head against Dean’s shoulder.

 

Dean curses, breathy and beautiful, and he eases Castiel away. He forces a gaping chasm of inches between their bodies, and Castiel easily overcomes the distance for another kiss. Their mouths meet but Dean keeps it light, stays on the surface, and Castiel cannot coax him deeper.

 

“Cas, we are really not equipped for this,” Dean says, voice low and strained.

 

“Kissing?” Castiel asks, confused, because they most certainly are. His voice has become a low and ruined rasp he doesn’t recognize.

 

Dean peers at him, again holding Castiel’s face between his hands. “You said…?”

 

“Show me how you want to be kissed,” Castiel answers. He runs one hand up and down Dean’s side, from hip to armpit, the long journey of abdomen and torso. His other hand can’t seem to leave Dean’s back, too busy marveling at his shoulder blades. He restrains his wings, forcing himself to keep from holding Dean properly. He could wrap them around Dean and pull their bodies flush once more.

 

“Oh,” Dean says, and he sounds so disappointed that Castiel would change his answer if he knew what to change it to. “No, that’s, that’s good, that’s all we should really…” He trails off, staring at Castiel’s mouth. “Yeah. Should stick to just kissing.”

 

“This is ‘just kissing’?” Castiel asks.

 

“Good point,” Dean says, and kisses him again. He does nothing new, and yet the onslaught of sensation is in no way lessened by the repetition of stimulus. The heat is there, the taste, the scent. The wet pressure and the flow of air from Dean into him, from him into Dean. The calm exhilaration, the needful contentment.

 

They continue to tug at each other, but Dean keeps their lower bodies apart. This is presumably wise. Dean moves his mouth back to Castiel’s ear, and this is indubitably wonderful.

 

Castiel keens softly, not meaning to. “Dean…” He tilts his head at once into and away from the touch, at once providing more access and needing more pressure.

 

With a smug noise, Dean drops his mouth lower. There are lips and tongue in rapid succession, and then there are _teeth_.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel gasps, his entire body jolting. He holds on too tight, forces himself to refrain even while he desperately needs to move. He needs to flap for balance and cannot move his wings even an inch. His arms, mere arms, must suffice, and this is not enough, none of this is _enough_.

 

Dean laughs against the skin of his neck, hot puffs of breath that cool the lingering damp of wet kisses. “What?” he asks. “Nobody ever kiss you there before?”

 

“No one’s kissed me anywhere before,” Castiel answers, one hand on the back of Dean’s head, urging him to repeat this.

 

Dean moves in the wrong direction. Though still holding on, he sways back intolerable inches. “What?”

 

“It’s a good change,” Castiel hastens to assure him.

 

“Are you shitting me?” Dean asks, which seems to mean a bad thing. Not a very bad thing, judging by a tone more incredulous than hurt, but a bad thing nonetheless.

 

“You’re confused,” Castiel settles for saying.

 

“How has no one ever kissed you?” Dean asks. He keeps staring at Castiel’s mouth and wetting his own reddened lips, but he nudges Castiel back each time he leans forward.

 

“Lack of interest,” Castiel answers easily, only to be gently thwarted again. They are wasting time when they could be kissing.

 

Dean stares at him. “What, do people not have eyes?”

 

“Eyesight has no bearing on my preferences,” Castiel replies.

 

Dean repeats, “On your…” He sways forward only to remove himself, a tease as unintentional as it is infuriating. “But you’ve, you _have_ wanted people before, right?”

 

“I,” Castiel begins, and he recalls, of all people, a demon. He remembers a few details in a new light, and so he says, “Yes.”

 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, as if this is important.

 

“She would call me by a different name, much like someone else I know,” Castiel replies.

 

“She call you ‘Cas’ too?” Dean asks.

 

Castiel shakes his head against Dean’s palm. His eyes seek to shut. “She called me ‘Clarence’ instead.” The insult of a human name, rapidly turning into a joke. “But we didn’t know each other very long or very well, and it wouldn’t have worked.” Meeting someone in close combat, and then interrogation, tended to have that effect. Castiel’s role had been that of the sympathizer, Uriel’s that of the interrogator, and it occurs to Castiel now that he may have been more predisposed to that role than he’d thought at the time.

 

Has he lusted more often than twice? With a basis for comparison, he ought to be able to find something more, but he doesn’t think so. It seems very little, especially compared to Balthazar or Anna, or even Hannah or Uriel, but it has always seemed like even less.

 

“I think that’s all,” Castiel concludes. “What about you?”

 

“A little more frequently than that,” Dean admits, which makes sense for a creature of such a short lifespan. “Last time I felt like this, though, it wouldn’t have worked out either. Politically. She had a kid. Mage kid. Great kid.” His expression softens and hardens at once as his eyes slip past Castiel’s face. “Somebody else’s bastard, though, and I wasn’t going to risk getting him caught up in succession bullshit. Spent a long time torn up about that.” His gaze returns to Castiel’s eyes and he smiles faintly. “Not anymore, though.”

 

Castiel smiles back and immediately needs to distract Dean from the ruffling of his feathers. Dean’s eyes flick to the side, and it’s too late.

 

“Shit, did I do that?” Dean asks.

 

“Do what?” Castiel says, feigning ignorance. He looks first behind him, and then at the wing Dean’s staring at. “Oh. That… should settle.” He turns his head to check his other wing. “Did you pull any feathers out?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Dean says.

 

Needlessly, Castiel checks the floor around their feet, which is yet another waste of time that could be spent kissing. He only sees the dropped gloves, having fallen down where they deserve to be. “It’s fine.”

 

Something in Dean’s expression shifts, something both heavy-lidded and disbelieving. Castiel has gotten to know his face very well. “Man, how were you casting that entire time? After the dual casting, I shouldn’t be surprised but…” He shakes his head.

 

“That was much more difficult than the dual casting,” Castiel tells him.

 

A faint smile touches Dean’s lips exactly the way Castiel’s own lips should. “Yeah?”

 

“I greatly enjoy challenges, Dean,” Castiel says. He draws Dean back in, and Dean begins to smirk.

 

“You saying you want another?” Dean asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

Dean shakes his head, but it’s not in denial, not with how he leans in and leans down. They look at each other through half-closed eyes, breathing each other’s air. “You’re a freakishly fast learner, Cas. Seriously no kissing before?”

 

“It was easier than the dancing,” Castiel explains. “Much more immediately rewarding.”

 

“We should still dance, though,” Dean says. “Tonight.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So you should finish taking those notes.”

 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, not moving.

 

“Cas,” Dean says, laughing a little.

 

It takes Castiel a moment. He does not need notes. He doesn’t need to transcribe. He needs to make delivery arrangements and secure Seer Shurley’s cooperation in removing the tablet from its box. He needs to fly and dance and celebrate and keep kissing Dean.

 

“Right,” Castiel says anyway. He straightens the chair, putting it again sideways in relation to the table. He sits. He takes up the pen and he looks at Dean until Dean drags his chair closer and sits as well.

 

“No rush,” Dean tells him, and when Castiel glares, Dean laughs.

 

“The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can be kissing you,” Castiel says, and Dean stops laughing.

 

Dean leans in close, a hot line of temptation. “Making up for lost time, huh?”

 

Castiel keeps his eyes steadfastly on the tablet and the paper before him. “Balthazar has been telling me for years that I’m missing out. He’s going to be insufferable.”

 

“He married?” Dean asks, and the excessive amount of practice in keeping his wings still once again comes to the fore. Castiel pulls at the corners of his own mouth in a way he hopes indicates laughter.

 

“He’s the opposite of married,” Castiel answers, and Dean laughs for him.

 

“So he’s been out having your share of the fun,” Dean says.

 

“That’s fine,” Castiel says, steadily transcribing. “He can’t have you, so it evens out.”

 

Dean leans in, and through the threadbare fabric of two shirts, Castiel feels the press of his lips against his shoulder. Turning his head, Dean lays his cheek down on the spot he’d kissed. Castiel tilts his own head, pressing his cheek to the lightly tousled hair crowning Dean’s head. Dean’s arm crosses his back, pressing against both wings, for his hand to grip the back of Castiel’s chair. It is quiet and lovely, and Castiel hastens to complete his busywork to better appreciate it.

 

“That symbol’s on the box too,” Dean murmurs. “What’s that one mean?”

 

“This one?”

 

Nodding gently, Dean shifts his cheek against Castiel’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

 

“Concisely and ignoring roughly twelve layers of meaning, it means ‘angel’,” Castiel replies.

 

Dean hums. “And not concisely?”

 

“‘The winged people.’ ‘They who live’ with the concept of life linked to magic, which is in turn linked to the concept of flight. ‘They who soar,’ which is almost a pun.” He doesn’t try to explain it. He can’t make it funny. He’s not Uriel.

 

“So it’s all about the wings, then,” Dean says.

 

“An angel without wings is dead,” Castiel reminds him.

 

“Or Lucifer,” Dean says with a small sound of amusement.

 

“Or Lucifer,” Castiel agrees, moving on to the next symbol.

 

Castiel keeps working and Dean keeps asking. Castiel stays intentionally vague and the mood stays languid. Dean’s hand leaves the back of the chair to pet his wings again, fingers threading through feathers, and Castiel fights to keep his eyes open.

 

“I’m glad you wore these,” Dean says, head still on Castiel’s shoulder. It’s a good place for him, though the angle can’t be comfortable for Dean’s spine.

 

“Wore…?” Castiel prompts. His clothing, old and borrowed and thin, doesn’t seem to be the answer.

 

The petting stops, Dean evidently remembering he’s not allowed to touch. “The wings. Glad you caught my eye.”

 

Castiel turns his head and presses his lips against Dean’s hair. He would reach for Dean’s free hand, but he has a pen in his own and too much writing to do. He has too much of everything to do, but he closes his eyes and inhales Dean’s human scent.

 

After tomorrow night, he will never have this again.

 

“I’m glad, too,” he says, and he means it just as much as he doesn’t.

 

Very soon, within the year, Dean is going to hate him. Perhaps within the month.

 

Dean lifts his head from Castiel’s shoulder, a foreshadowing of further loss. “You all right?”

 

“I’m not looking forward to leaving,” Castiel says.

 

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, “if you _did_ stay until the wedding, I could walk you home. All the way home. Except, y’know, not walking. Combustion carriage.”

 

All the more reason he can’t stay.

 

“Gonna be leaving on patrol anyway,” Dean continues. “Gotta get to the border and do the annual sweep, catch all the shit we chase to the outskirts during the rest of the year. Might as well swing by the university on the way out and pass this off. Nothing like a wagon-full of knights to keep old demon treasure safe en route.”

 

Castiel stops writing. “You’d deliver it yourself?”

 

“I’m not gonna pass up an excuse to see you, Cas,” Dean tells him.

 

“So I’d see you again in…”

 

“About two weeks, yeah,” Dean says, smiling.

 

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer, and Dean’s smile fades.

 

“What?” Dean asks, clearly assuming Castiel is upset.

 

Accordingly, Castiel reaches for a reason to be upset. “And after that, when would I get to see you again? Until my project is finished and I’m able to move?”

 

Dean’s head lifts in understanding. “You want to space it out.”

 

Castiel wants a delivery method that will not require them to meet. He needs a delivery method that would allow Seer Shurley to receive the package in his place, as, outside of the pretense of a masquerade ball, Castiel cannot be seen with his wings and not be cause for alarm. Should Dean himself arrive and find Castiel missing, the transfer would never be made.

 

“I’d rather wait a few months twice,” Castiel tells him.

 

“I can see what I can shift around,” Dean says. “But if I’m not on the delivery wagon, it might be three months until I can visit.”

 

“If you come this month, then it could be six more months until the next meeting,” Castiel counters. Is that a long time to a human?

 

Dean visibly hesitates.

 

“Will you write to me?” Castiel asks.

 

“Yes,” Dean promises immediately. “And I’ll send an extra sheet of paper inside, so you don’t have an excuse not to write back.”

 

Castiel makes his mouth smile. “Then I think three months twice is the most feasible course of action.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says with a sigh. “You’re right.”

 

Castiel resumes his transcription. “Oh,” he says, as if as an afterthought. “All requested materials on this project go to Seer Shurley’s office. The tablet would be much safer there, too. I use communal areas.”

 

“No offense, Cas,” Dean says, settling back against him, “but your patron is a stingy dick.”

 

Relieved to have been so readily believed, Castiel replies, “We get by.”

 

Having barely set it back down, Dean lifts his head. “We?”

 

Castiel looks at him, their faces again brought close. “Hm?”

 

“Who’s ‘we’? All you sponsored people?”

 

Castiel doesn’t know any. He falls back to a subject of relative safety. “My siblings.”

 

“You’re supporting them,” Dean says. There’s something in his tone and eyes Castiel doesn’t immediately understand.

 

“We’re supporting each other,” Castiel corrects. He tears his eyes away from Dean’s mouth and resumes writing.

 

After much too long, Dean settles back against him. “It’s good pay, you know. In the Men of Letters. Enough to raise a family on.”

 

“I think it’s rather premature to be talking about children, Dean.”

 

Dean flicks him on the outside of his thigh but doesn’t lift his head. “Smartass. Just meant, four adults, you’d be fine. All of you.”

 

Using a pen on paper feels slower than carving into stone with his blade. Everything drags, and the ink is slow to dry. The need to keep from smudging it is absurd. He focuses on this rather than the unease inside his abdomen.

 

“Do you think they’d want to move with you?” Dean asks. “Or would you be sending money back?”

 

“They’d want to move,” Castiel answers, bent on his task. It’s very difficult, to keep from leaning into this fantasy. “I don’t know if that would be with me. I think we could all stand a little time apart.”

 

“Sounds like family,” Dean says with a sigh. “High tensions?”

 

“Cramped living.”

 

“That would do it,” Dean says. He nuzzles into Castiel, making himself comfortable, and the lie of it, the sheer amount of falsehood burns.

 

“Everything I do, I do for them,” Castiel confesses, not willing or able to look at Dean as he speaks. “All my research, this project, even… even coming here, Dean.” Especially coming here. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.”

 

After a long moment of holding still, of holding Castiel, Dean says, “It’s never been about some project, has it.”

 

Castiel bids his body not to tense. Remaining relaxed ought to be impossible, but Dean’s arm around his wings is a marvel in itself. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” Dean says, “I pegged you for a lore junkie, but it’s more than curiosity. You don’t have the luxury of curiosity, do you? Too busy supporting your family.”

 

“I don’t have the luxury of a lot of things,” Castiel admits. The truth tries to well up, so he breaks off a piece of it and releases that instead. “I shouldn’t even have this.” And he presses his cheek to the top of Dean’s head.

 

“Too bad, ’cause you got it anyway,” Dean says, blithely dismissive of that confession. He tightens his arm around Castiel, making it so much worse. “You done copying that yet?”

 

“Almost.”

 

“Is it ’cause I’m interrupting a lot?”

 

No. “Yes.”

 

Dean pulls away, a prelude of things to come. A minute more, and he scoots back his chair to retrieve his gloves from the floor. Then he folds his arms on the table, eyes on the slim box containing Michael’s blade.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Castiel asks, needing the distraction from his own mind.

 

“You,” Dean says frankly.

 

Castiel smiles with his mouth. He is not tempted to do so with his wings.

 

“You’d really be willing to move?” Dean asks.

 

“If the offer still stands after I finish my project, then yes,” Castiel replies, and he means that. It’s a false pretense all the way up and all the way down, but he means this.

 

He’s had very few fantasies.

 

He’s indulged in even fewer.

 

“That’s not really an ‘if,’ Cas,” Dean says, and he’s right, though not in the way he thinks.

 

“Then you have my answer.”

 

“Are you sure?” Dean asks.

 

“I don’t like where I live,” Castiel says bluntly. “None of us do.”

 

“Oh,” says Dean. “Yeah, we’ll find you something better.”

 

And Castiel says, “I’d like that.”

 

At last, Castiel finishes transcribing. He sets the pen down and begins to restore the writing kit to its original state, but Dean catches at his arm, saying, “Leave it.”

 

“I need to wait for the ink to dry,” Castiel says. “I might as well–”

 

“Yeah, you might as well kiss me,” Dean says, and then it’s happening, an uncontrollable impulse fulfilled before it’s even felt.

 

They kiss, twisted toward each other in their chairs.

 

They kiss, Dean tugging Castiel back up to his feet.

 

They kiss, even as they fumble their way around to the other, unoccupied table. Castiel doesn’t understand why until Dean backs up against it, until Dean hops up onto it, and then Castiel stands in the gap between Dean’s knees, abruptly understanding everything in the world worth knowing.

 

This time, they immediately press for closeness. Castiel cranes up for each kiss, nearly pulling Dean back off the table. Dean leans on him harder, hands on his shoulders, then an arm around his neck. Is this what hunger is? This might be what hunger is.

 

He breaks the kiss to lavish oral attention on Dean’s neck. In this position, it’s closer than his mouth, and Castiel puts the access to good use. Dean’s skin tastes different than the inside of his mouth; Castiel knows because he checks, multiple times. From mouth to neck and back, on each side, he checks.

 

Dean laughs, a short but deep rumble. “Can’t make up your mind, huh, Cas. Mm.” He leans into it when Castiel performs the same act upon Dean’s earlobe that Dean had done to him. Dean threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair, urging him to stay, to escalate. His other hand tugs at Castiel’s wing.

 

“There’s so much of you,” Castiel tries to explain, even though this makes little sense. Even with an extra inch of height on him, Dean is far smaller than Castiel, being wingless. And yet.

 

“You got me,” Dean says, and Castiel is not prepared for how much this _hurts_.

 

“Don’t,” he says against Dean’s neck, and it comes out too sharp.

 

Dean releases his wing. “Sorry. They’re so fucking soft, man. It’s like having giant handles on you. Can’t help wanting to hold on.” One hand on Castiel’s nape now, the other still in his hair. He scratches his fingernails against Castiel’s scalp, and it is bliss with an ache.

 

He sets his mouth against Dean’s and silences himself. He silences himself as much as he stills his wings, and even the joy of touch begins to grow foul. It is false, not stolen but given in exchange for a lie, and Castiel could shake Dean for letting it be this easy.

 

Dean breaks the kiss, not so much pulling back as straightening up. His hands keep Castiel’s face tilted toward him, or perhaps this is something Castiel does himself. “Too much?” Dean asks with a calm sort of concern, not at all cloying. “You’re getting all tense again.”

 

“I want to be with you,” Castiel says.

 

“Good,” Dean tells him. He brushes his hands through Castiel’s hair, rocking his head from side to side as Castiel leans into the alternating touches. Dean’s knees press against his hips, gripping him like a more welcoming pair of tongs. Dean’s legs line his, knee to boot against the outside of his thighs. “Keep doing that.”

 

“We’re infatuated.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and he ducks his head back down for another kiss.

 

Castiel strokes the line of his back, and it is a line, just one line for an entire back, the length of his spine all that matters. The musculature is strange, important pieces missing. His hands try to seek them out anyway. What needs to be said weighs down on him, and eventually, he finds the way to say it.

 

“It’s been four nights,” he murmurs against Dean’s mouth.

 

“I know we’re rushing,” Dean says, and their noses slide against each other. Their foreheads press. “But we’re about to slow the fuck down, so screw it.”

 

Dean kisses him deep and full, and when Castiel remembers himself enough to try to pull back, there are teeth. There’s a bite to his lower lip, a slow, scraping pull of sensation, and Castiel abruptly understands why humans display teeth to show joy, to indicate pleasure. He groans and pulls at Dean where his wings ought to start, but even through Dean’s jacket and shirt, it’s clear there’s no soft down to scratch in appreciation.

 

His attentions make Dean squirm, and so Castiel finds he cannot stop. He makes Dean twist and press into him and, once, remarkably, giggle. The sound is bright and joyful and, in unwitting wisdom, Dean refuses to make it again.

 

“Not for nothing, Cas,” Dean huffs against his neck, “but you can touch below the belt, too. I’m not up on a table for my health.”

 

“I’m not finished with above the belt,” Castiel informs him, which seems an unnecessary thing to say. He slips a hand around to Dean’s front to demonstrate, fingertips crossing over the neat stitching of his jacket and the pectorals beneath. He strokes back the other way, his knuckles across Dean’s abdomen.

 

“Hold on,” Dean says. He takes his hands off Castiel to better rid himself of the jacket, but his knees tighten on either side of Castiel’s waist. Beneath the jacket, there’s what feels like two shirts, one layered over the other, and perhaps an undershirt beneath even those. It’s more layers than Castiel has seen on any one person in centuries.

 

The kissing resumes as it should, as it shouldn’t.

 

He stops his hands from sliding across smooth fabric. He holds rather than strokes, and he gains unwanted distance, even with his upper thighs still pressed against the table’s edge. He’s more out of breath than he should be for so little exertion, or perhaps it’s simply the tightness in his chest forcing the air out.

 

“I want you to know,” Castiel says, “that the time we’ve spent together, it’s been the best experience I’ve had in years. Decades.” Centuries.

 

“We’re not saying goodbye until tomorrow, Cas,” Dean tells him.

 

“If I start now, I might have enough time.”

 

“Cas,” Dean says, exasperated and fond and impatient for touch.

 

“I mean that,” Castiel promises. “I didn’t expect you. I couldn’t have expected you.”

 

Dean cups his face, and though his eyes are only green, not a blaze of blue-white, they are still shining.

 

“I wasn’t prepared for you, but now, if I could let you change my priorities, I would. But that will have to wait until I can complete my project and separate myself from my patron. And then, if you want me, I’ll do all that I can to be yours.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘if’?” Dean demands. Though clearly offended, he doesn’t push Castiel away. If anything, he holds him closer, tighter, and Castiel’s body rejoices in being so held.

 

“Situations change,” Castiel says. “It’s been four days, Dean, I’m being reasonable.”

 

“You don’t get to promise yourself to me and call me inconstant in the same sentence, Cas.”

 

“I’m not,” Castiel says. “But you are an extremely loyal man with a great number of responsibilities, and situations do change. As much as I may wish otherwise, I am not a suitable match for you and–”

 

“Bullshit,” Dean interrupts. “I don’t care about your station, and even if I did, we’re getting you a new one. My granddad was a Man of Letters and he married a _queen_ , so don’t you tell me that’s not respectable enough for you to be with me.”

 

“It’s more than that,” Castiel tries to say.

 

“We can get you a surname, too,” Dean continues over him. “I’ve already talked to my dad about it. It would go to your siblings, too, if you wanted. You’d legally be a family, with all the rights that go with it, not just a bunch of people who met in an orphanage. So you go home and you tell them and you all decide on what you like, and when I come visiting in a few months, I can make it official.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel says.

 

“I don’t care that you’re poor,” Dean says. “I mean, I do, but not that way. I know you don’t have a lot going for you right now, but it takes a crazy kind of genius to necromance on a pair of taxidermied griffin wings just so no one notices how old your clothes are. You’re weird and awesome and I fucking love that you raided the biology department instead of grabbing a tailor. That’s exactly the kind of resourceful the Men of Letters keep around, and that means you’re gonna be set for life.”

 

“Please stop,” Castiel says.

 

“When I said the job was yours whether you were with me or not, that was for you, all right? Because I’m not trying to buy you here, I don’t want you _obligated_ to me, Cas. I didn’t mean I was going to change my mind, because I’m not. I want you. In my life. In my work. In my bed, whenever you’re ready for that. I wanna see how far we can make this work.”

 

This far, and no farther.

 

Castiel steps back.

 

Dean reaches and Castiel takes his hands, at once holding him and preventing him from holding.

 

“I am not calling you inconstant,” Castiel tells him. “Or disloyal, or easily turned, or any of a thousand things I know go against your character. I am telling you that circumstances change and we change with them. Should circumstance change, I would not fault you for changing.”

 

“Do you need me to grab Sam?” Dean asks. “Because I can grab Sam.”

 

“Why would you– No. I don’t need a seer.”

 

“Then what do you think is going to change?” Dean asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Castiel lies, his gaze steady, Dean’s hands in his. “All I said was ‘if,’ Dean.”

 

“But you think I’m going to change my mind,” Dean says. “That’s what’s been bugging you, that’s why all the tension.”

 

Dean is a protector. Castiel knows and has somehow forgotten at the same time. Dean is a protector, and the more vulnerable Castiel makes himself appear, the tighter Dean will hold on. Castiel _knows_ this, and yet he has erred.

 

“My insecurities are my own,” Castiel says. “Though I should think certain disparities would make them rational concerns.”

 

“So you get to say you’ll wait for me, but I can’t do the same for you.”

 

Castiel squeezes his hands. “Indulge me in this.”

 

“Cas, letting you feel like shit when you don’t need to, isn’t indulging you.”

 

“The world changes, Dean,” Castiel says, more sharply than he means to. “When Anna died, it changed. When Michael died, it changed. When we lost our home, it changed, and that is why I have learned to say ‘if.’ And should your world remain unchanged, then I do trust that you will remain constant.”

 

Dean looks at him long and hard, but he doesn’t pull his hands away. “It’s not about me,” he says, as if this is a realization. “It’s everything else you don’t trust.”

 

Castiel nods.

 

Dean looks at him even longer. Releasing Castiel’s hands, he pushes off the table and stands. Castiel steps back but Dean steps forward, and the other table is still behind him. His wings tap against a chair.

 

“Can I hold you again?” Dean asks.

 

Castiel nods, because this will calm Dean, and he needs Dean to be calmed. He nods and he opens his arms and he tucks his face into Dean’s neck and he could say everything. He could tell Dean he never wants to see him hurt. He could apologize for how their relationship will destroy his reputation. He could ask forgiveness for every piece of guilt and receive it all, only for Dean to hate him the more for it later.

 

“I got you,” Dean whispers into his ear. He chuckles a little, and Castiel curls into the sound. “I mean, I got as much of you as I can. These things are huge.”

 

“I think they’re proportional,” Castiel answers. “An effective wingspan to body ratio has–”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, and the way he nuzzles in a little serves to effectively shut Castiel’s mouth. “I’m sure you researched the crap out of that too, right down to however it is you put a shirt on after.”

 

“A back flap goes between the wings, and you attach strings to tie it down around the front.”

 

“So that’s what that lump was,” Dean says. He hugs Castiel all the tighter, and slowly begins to let go. They ease away from each other, though there is no ease in the separation.

 

They look at each other for only a moment before Castiel ducks back in for one last kiss. It’s a press of mouths, nothing more. No hands on hands, no fingers on faces or palms upon bodies. Just their lips and the slight nudge of a nose. Just lips and breath and the hint of teeth beneath.

 

“Ink’s gotta be dry by now,” Dean says, after.

 

Castiel retrieves the pages, and for nearly a full five seconds, there is an entire table between them. Then Dean comes to him. Castiel busies his hands with collecting his papers, folding them carefully to place inside his belt pouch next to his invitation. He eyes the unused paper but leaves it where it is. He’s already taking enough.

 

Dean retrieves his accursed gloves and once again puts them on. He pauses to give Castiel one last look at the tablet and, at Castiel’s nod, closes the box.

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says again. It’s all that’s safe to say.

 

Dean shrugs a little. “Not like we’re using it. The knife, though, that, we’re probably gonna keep.”

 

Raphael would want him to bargain for it.

 

Castiel decides he doesn’t care.

 

“Would you wield it yourself?” he asks.

 

“I’ve always been more for shields than parrying daggers, but maybe,” Dean says. “Unless putting that to use offends your historical sensibilities.” This is said jokingly, but Dean still watches attentively for his response.

 

“No. I think it would suit you,” Castiel tells him, knowing no higher compliment.

 

“Yeah?” Dean grins.

 

“Yes.”

 

They gaze at each other longer, too long.

 

“We should go upstairs,” Castiel says. “Fit in some dancing before I need to turn in for the night.”

 

Dean frowns before nodding. “Guess you used up a lot of energy keeping those on, with, uh, everything else. Though we could always ask Sam to bop you on the head for a second.”

 

“Primarily, I meant that my lodgings only keep the door unlocked so late into the evening,” Castiel explains.

 

Dean’s frown turns into a grin. “You mean, if I keep you too late, you have to stay here?”

 

“Don’t tempt me,” Castiel says, but Dean only grins wider.

 

“Oh, I am going to _constantly_ tempt you,” he promises.

 

“You’re tousled enough,” Castiel says, and Dean looks Castiel over in return.

 

“You too.” He steps closer, which is a bad idea Castiel does not resist. “Hold still, gonna at least try to fix your hair.”

 

Castiel holds still. With the reintroduction of the gloves, the experience is greatly dulled. This is, technically, for the best. With this finished, Dean bids him turn around so Dean can straighten his feathers, and Castiel has no logical reason to refuse. It’s the clumsiest, most endearing preening of his life, and yet he keeps his feathers from fluffing.

 

“All right, now me,” Dean says.

 

His hair is only as mussed as its short length will allow, but Castiel grooms him anyway.

 

“Do I have any marks?” Dean asks. He indicates his neck where a few patches of faint purple have arisen.

 

“Yes,” Castiel says, and feels proud. He understands smiling with teeth now, very well indeed.

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Heal now, be smug later.”

 

“I can do many things at once,” Castiel says, and proves it with a touch. They’re such small aberrations in Dean’s life force that prodding them with his grace is unquestionably overkill. Castiel has to make sure to alter nothing else; he’s heard humans can be attached to their scars and presumes Dean would notice them missing.

 

When Castiel finishes, Dean inspects Castiel’s neck in turn. He finds nothing.

 

“I don’t bruise easily,” Castiel explains.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean says, and it sounds like a lewd promise.

 

Dean puts on his jacket, and they both put on their masks. That barrier, once familiar, turns strange. The horns were once his only reliable means of recognizing Dean, but now the mask irks him nearly as much as the gloves. The idea of Dean hidden from him in any way is anathema.

 

Openly adoring, a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth, Dean reaches out and smooths down one of the feathers of Castiel’s mask.

 

When they exit, the guards are different. Dean nods to each and gives them a few words before they head past them and up the stairs. They don’t hold hands, although Castiel would certainly be willing to, even with the gloves in the way. They don’t speak either, and their footsteps remind Castiel of the carrying nature of the stairway acoustics.

 

Upstairs, they check the hour on one of the hall clocks, and there is still time for dancing. Castiel informs him that he needs to leave at least twenty minutes before midnight, and Dean accepts this with a put-upon grumble. Nonetheless, they move to the courtyard by a mutually unspoken decision.

 

The night air is lovely, the stars faint. The music is strangely loud after so long downstairs with only their own voices and the other soft noises of their mouths, but it seems to draw Dean out of the aching mood from down below. Or perhaps that’s the dancing.

 

Last night, Castiel thought them coordinated. Tonight, they are something new. Touching, moving, eyes forever upon each other; this is how they stretch the remainder of the night. This is how they spend it. They speak only of little things, holding an almost desperate peace. They do not kiss, but they very often almost do.

 

Too soon, it’s time to go.

 

He should feel victory. He should feel joy. He has secured their freedom without use of violence, only deception, but the weight of that _only_ is a weight too heavy for even his arms to carry.

 

Dean walks him to the castle door and, for the first time, for the second-to-last time, Castiel kisses him goodbye.

 


	8. Fifth Day

In the morning, there is training, and Dean is trying something new.

 

“That’s no parrying dagger,” Cleric Jim tells him, inspecting the blade in the equipment shed. It’s a much bigger space than a true shed, but the name’s stuck through multiple renovations. “No cross-guard to speak of, and the hilt’s too long.” He taps the possibly metal surface of the blade with one finger and inspects the lack of fingerprint left behind. “You know what the enchantment on it is?”

 

“Not really,” Dean admits. “Theoretically, it should hold shape no matter what. No breaking, no dulling. Beyond that, not so much.”

 

Cleric Jim hums to himself and passes the blade back before working through the variety of training weapons at their disposal. “Here, Prince. This is the most comparable we have for length. Are you considering that for a main-hand or off-hand weapon?”

 

“Figure I’ll try out both and see what feels right,” Dean says. It’s of a length where it could be either. “I’ll start main-hand.”

 

“Then you’re partnered with Jo today,” Cleric Jim decides. “I’ll let Rufus and the commander know.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean says. Then, indicating the angel blade, he asks, “Any chance you’ve got a sheath to fit it?”

 

“Might do,” Cleric Jim says. “Let me take a gander.”

 

“Awesome. One thing first, though?”

 

Cleric Jim pauses. “Getting to be a lot of things. What’s this one?”

 

Dean holds the blade by the business end and offers the hilt to Cleric Jim. “This is gonna sound weird, but try to heal this.”

 

Cleric Jim looks at him with raised eyebrows before taking the blade back. “That’s not even organic matter, Prince.”

 

“Indulge me.” He knows what Cas told him last night, but he still wants to verify. There’s such a thing as confirmation bias.

 

Shrugging slightly, Cleric Jim holds the blade in both his hands and focuses. His eyes widen. He looks up at Dean. “What is this?”

 

“What did you feel?” Dean asks.

 

Cleric Jim looks at him with all the seriousness of the world and says, “Eggs.”

 

Dean says, “What?”

 

“Feels like eggs,” Cleric Jim repeats. “The bit before they hatch, when they’re not quite alive just yet.”

 

“So there’s life force in it?” Dean asks.

 

“More like, there’s something in it that _wants_ to be life force,” Cleric Jim says. “Or, rather, that could be. There’s something related to life here, no doubt about it.”

 

“But you don’t know what.”

 

Cleric Jim shakes his head, eyes back on the blade. He might be casting again.

 

“Does it feel human?” Dean asks.

 

“No,” Cleric Jim answers without pausing to think. “It’s giving me that push-back you get from healthy skin, once it’s already healed up and doesn’t need tending to. But human? No.”

 

“No sense of species at all?”

 

“It’s not dog or horse, those I know well enough to say. My first instinct is still eggs. Been longer than you’ve been alive, Prince, since I’ve minded my mother’s coop, but I still know the feel of a hatching egg from an eating egg.”

 

“Does it...” A thought strikes him. “Does it feel like something with wings? Or more like a lizard or a fish.”

 

Cleric Jim looks up at that. “You know, I’d have to say wings. Then again, I’ve never tried to heal a lizard or a fish, only Mother’s hens.”

 

“But that’s your first instinct,” Dean says. “Eggs and wings.”

 

“It is,” Cleric Jim answers. “I don’t have the first clue as to how that got in there, but that’s what I’m picking up, and in no small amounts.”

 

“So the power that went into this thing was big?”

 

“Enormous,” Cleric Jim tells him flatly. “Magic and life force, but all one flavor, so to speak.”

 

“How do you mean?” Dean asks.

 

Outside, a whistle blows.

 

“I’ll tell you during drills,” Cleric Jim promises, passing the blade back. “Now stow that wherever you stow it.”

 

Dean stows it. Training goes as per usual until they break down for sparring, and then it’s Dean with Jo, with Cleric Jim guiding. Jo proceeds to hand Dean’s ass to him with no small grin, but that’s only to be expected with the weapon change. Cleric Jim sets them up with a two person drill and keeps Jo down to just the one knife for now. They begin at a reasonable speed before truly syncing up, and then the soothing repetition of exertion takes over.

 

Even with laps and stretching, even with breakfast and fetching the blade from the vaults, he’s still a little groggy from a late night of thinking too much. Finally, that fades. How much of that has to do with Jo smacking him in the fingers each time he messes up, he won’t say.

 

“Jim, you were saying?” Dean prompts, once he’s certain enough conversation won’t cost him more bruises.

 

“More weight on your hind leg,” Cleric Jim says. “You’re expecting a sword’s reach, and you’re leaning forward too far.”

 

Dean corrects his stance accordingly. “I meant about the blade.”

 

“What blade?” Jo asks, eyes lighting up predictably.

 

“Thing I showed Cas last night,” Dean explains.

 

Jo hits a little harder. “Tell me that’s not a dick joke.”

 

“Not yet,” Dean says, countering just as hard.

 

“Children,” says Cleric Jim.

 

They behave, for now. “It’s an enchanted short sword, or maybe a long dagger.”

 

“Hence this?” Jo asks.

 

“Hence this,” Dean agrees.

 

“You could always let me use it,” Jo says. “What’s it enchanted for?”

 

“Jim?” Dean asks. “You were saying something about the ‘flavor’ of the magic?”

 

“It’s all the same one,” Cleric Jim says.

 

“Why’s that weird?” Jo asks. “Most things are enchanted by a single artificer.”

 

“Not with this much power, they aren’t,” Cleric Jim says. “You might be able to squeeze that much power into a slow enchantment, but the consistency is wrong for that. Even I know that.”

 

“Even choppier?” Dean asks.

 

“Much too smooth,” Cleric Jim says. “Feels like a single session spell, not something that was layered on over years.”

 

“Years?” Dean asks.

 

“That’s a lot of power,” Jo says. “So what else did the artificer say?”

 

“Haven’t had an artificer check it out yet,” Dean says, although he does plan to consult with Ash next.

 

“You didn’t tell me you were learning artificing,” Jo accuses Cleric Jim.

 

“I haven’t. I’ve only heard this sort of thing described before. But I could feel the, er, the magic in it.”

 

Jo frowns into her next block. “Who would enchant a dagger with healing magic?”

 

“Someone very powerful,” Cleric Jim says. “With enough power to waste on it, even.”

 

“Is this an angel thing?” Jo asks Dean. They switch roles, switch stances, and begin again. “If you showed it to Cas, it’s gotta be an angel thing.”

 

“He thinks it’s an angel thing,” Dean says.

 

“Never heard any stories about angels forging weapons,” Cleric Jim says. “Then again, they must have had them…”

 

The life force mixed in with the magic. The way Cas described that “grace” thing angels were supposed to have.

 

It’s a little unnerving, the way Dean is almost starting to believe. All the more reason to seek out other explanations.

 

“It was in a box Cas says is warded against angels,” Dean says. He’s thinking about putting the same design on the sheath, once he has one. He’s already memorized the pattern on the blade’s box – he didn’t have much else to do, besides torment himself staring at Cas and furtively petting those wings. The longer design should fit well on a sheath, just in case the warding is against something else that it really does need to be warded against. “It was in with a bunch of other stuff we looted out of a demon stronghold, a couple centuries back.”

 

“So, like ‘ha ha, got your weapon, you can’t have it back’?” Jo asks. “Kind of a trophy box?”

 

“I guess,” Dean says. “Good quality work, but not showy, though. This really wasn’t the kind of box meant to impress.”

 

“I would have gone showy, if I were a demon,” Jo decides.

 

“Don’t think you need to be a demon for that, Jo,” Dean says.

 

Jo grins a bit. “Maybe mount it over the fireplace, put the warding on the plaque instead… C’mon, if you were a demon who’d stolen an angel’s blade, wouldn’t you show it off?”

 

“I’d use it,” Dean says.

 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Jo says. “Like that isn’t just another way of showing it off.”

 

Dean would shrug, but he’s a little busy.

 

Cleric Jim corrects his stance again, and in truth, it could be a lot worse. Jo’s shorter reach is definitely a help. If he were going up against Victor, Dean would be compensating even harder. It’s not like he isn’t used to a certain amount of knife work – they all have to be, in case of being disarmed of their primary weapon, because, as everyone knows: ghosts – but maybe he’s been letting it slide a little too long.

 

Of course, when it’s time to switch partners, Dean naturally ends up back with Victor. They quickly determine, through perfectly civil collaboration, that Dean really needs a shield to go with that blade. With the addition of the shield, they’re much more evenly matched. Not all the way, though. Someday.

 

They run through the remaining drills, making good time. Training officially ends around mid-morning, and Jo wastes no time in catching Dean’s arm.

 

“Can I see it?” she asks.

 

Dean looks down at her, this short blonde warrior, and it really is the perfect opportunity. “Yeah, of course. Meet me in Bobby’s office.”

 

“Still want that sheath?” Cleric Jim asks.

 

“Please,” Dean says. “I, uh. Y’know, if you’ve got a fancier one, that’d be cool too.”

 

Cleric Jim looks at him quizzically, but Jo immediately gets it, judging by her grin.

 

“You’re gonna wear it tonight?” she asks. “An angel’s sword to match an angel?”

 

“Shut up,” Dean tells her, which isn’t a _no_.

 

He’s not showing off, not really, but it would be impressive as fuck. And maybe he wants Cas impressed tonight.

 

Maybe he wants a lot of things with Cas tonight.

 

“You are so gone on this guy, it’s ridiculous,” Jo tells him, not knowing the half of it. She can’t know what Dean spent the rest of his waking hours last night mulling over, and yet she looks at him like she suspects.

 

“Jealous much?” Dean shoots back.

 

“Nah,” Jo says. “He can keep you.” She winks and Dean laughs. He laughs and he keeps grinning after, all the way to the barracks.

 

Yeah. Cas can keep him.

 

Dean doesn’t bother changing into his civilian clothes first. He simply grabs the blade from its place on his shelf and nods Jo towards Bobby’s office. He’d prefer them both in their full uniforms for this, but their training gear is almost as good.

 

Jo knocks. Bobby calls her in by name despite the lack of window in the door, and so Dean isn’t entirely surprised when Jo halts in the doorway and says, “Sorry, I can come back later.”

 

It’s further confirmation when he hears a voice besides Bobby’s say, “No, I was waiting for you two.”

 

“You heard my brother,” Dean says, poking her in the back. She enters the office in front of him, Dean follows, and when he closes the door behind him, it’s pretty cramped. Bobby’s in the chair by the overloaded desk. Unlike everyone else in the world, Bobby doesn’t stand when Dean enters the room. The office’s other chair – and all the leg space before it – is busy holding Sam.

 

“Hey,” Sam says brightly. He hops up from the chair and he grins at Dean and he doesn’t stop grinning.

 

Dean starts grinning back.

 

“So,” says Sam.

 

“Shut up,” says Dean.

 

Sam grins wider.

 

“I take it you two have discussed… whatever this is,” Bobby says.

 

“No,” Sam tells him. “But I felt it coming and I didn’t want to miss it.” He looks back to Dean, halfway to hesitant. “Is that all right?”

 

Dean’s throat is too tight to answer, so he just nods.

 

“Something tells me this isn’t about the knife,” Jo says, her attention nevertheless on the blade in Dean’s hand. “Is that it?”

 

Dean passes it to her by the long hilt. She makes all the appropriate noises of admiration, but Dean’s attention is on Sam and Bobby, mostly Sam.

 

“Did you tell Mom?” Dean asks. He doesn’t bother asking if Sam told their father.

 

Sam shakes his head. “Neither of them. I know you want this private. Small scale.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. The thickness in his throat tries to transfer itself into a pressure behind his eyes, but he fights that back too.

 

“Enough mystery,” Bobby says. “What’s this about?”

 

“I was talking with Cas last night,” Dean explains. “Dad offered him a Man of Letters position, what with, y’know.” He nods at Sam and everyone in the room nods along. “And Cas is gonna take it.”

 

“Poor idjit doesn’t have much choice,” Bobby muses. “Once that old man of yours thinks there’s a threat to one of you boys, it won’t go uncontained for long.”

 

“Even if people found out I’m a vessel, how much harm could it really do?” Sam asks. “Don’t get me wrong, the gloves are annoying, but it’s not like anyone’s gonna get at me without me letting them. Not without all of you letting them, either, _plus_ Dad.”

 

“Guys, my moment here,” Dean says.

 

“Right, sorry,” Sam says, and he fucking _bounces_ on the balls of his feet. “You were saying.”

 

“So he’s gonna take the position,” Dean says. “ _Without_ any arm twisting from Dad. He’s just gotta finish up his project first and close his arrangement with his patron. Thinks it’ll be maybe six months, which sucks, but hey.”

 

“As much as I enjoy the intricacies of your love life,” Bobby says dryly, “is there a point to this story?”

 

“He promised to wait for me,” Dean says, his insides squirming warmly. The look on Cas’ face. The almost desperate need for Dean to believe him. So fucking earnest. So entirely _Dean’s_. “But I- I don’t know, man. He basically tossed his heart into my hands before saying he’d understand if I wound up dropping it.”

 

“Reasonable,” Bobby says. “A stupid kind of reason, but reasonable.”

 

“ _Bobby_ ,” Dean says.

 

Bobby shrugs. “Everyone in twenty miles knows how fast your head just turned. Farther, by now. Can’t blame him for thinking it could turn again.”

 

“I’m not changing my mind,” Dean says. He thought about it last night, hard and long. He’s thought about Cas and he’s thought about everyone else, and there’s no comparison. Not with this gorgeous, awkward genius with the tentative smile. Cas smiles like he’s not sure how, like he’s had so little practice at joy and knows it.

 

Every single time he smiles, he looks to Dean for approval, as if to be sure he’s doing it right.

 

And Dean… Dean doesn’t love him. Not yet. But he’s sure as fuck going to. He knows what impending love feels like, and this is it. He’s going to get letters written by those long, broad fingers, and he’s going to read them too many times. He’s going to hate the ache of separation until he learns to love it, and then he’ll keep hating it anyway.

 

Cas doesn’t think he’ll wait, and the part of Dean that understands why, hates that he understands. Sure, Cas had blamed a mistrust of surrounding circumstances, but beneath that, it’s clear he considers Dean a piece of good luck he doesn’t think he can keep.

 

Dean understands that, too. He can’t not.

 

He thinks of Cas the same way.

 

He just refuses to accept that, not as long as Cas wants him back.

 

“And because I’m not changing my mind,” Dean says, “I want to prove it.”

 

Between Bobby and Jo, it’s Jo who understands first. Blade in one hand, she covers her mouth with the other. Her eyes go wide. She looks up at Dean to be sure, and she looks at Sam to confirm. Sam just keeps grinning.

 

Bobby realizes what’s happening a second later. If a sigh and a groan ever had a baby, then it grew up in Bobby’s lungs and only escaped just now. “Any chance you’re rushing into this?” The way Bobby says it, it’s not really a question.

 

“It’s actually tradition,” Sam says.

 

Everyone looks at him.

 

“What? It is,” Sam says. “Look, the entire point of this party is for all the eligible candidates to get paraded in front of me, all to be sure I’m serious about Jess. If I switched, or if I’d gone into this without Jess, I’d be marrying someone else in a week instead. That’s tradition. If Dean were the mage – well, then we’d have done this four years ago – but if Dean were the mage, we’d all be pushing him to commit.”

 

Sam grins at Dean all the harder. “Admit it. You just want to get engaged before I do.”

 

“Not full-on engaged,” Dean says. “Not like _engaged-_ engaged. More like, serious about trying to get there. An exclusive relationship.” The whole arrangement breaks if they kiss someone else afterwards, after all. 

 

“When you send that boy running for the hills, don’t you come crying to me,” Bobby says.

 

“Hey, you didn’t hear him,” Dean says.

 

“Son, _two days ago_ you were whining about him not liking you back.”

 

“I wasn’t _whining_.”

 

“It wasn’t about Cas not liking him back, either,” Jo says, having gone back to flipping the blade around in each hand, passing hand to hand, in some pretty intimidating loops. “You said he didn’t think you were serious.”

 

“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing at her – carefully – while looking to Bobby. “Let’s face it, if I wanted to play around with him until I got bored and gave him the boot, I could. Everybody knows it. And if I’ve got a ridiculous amount of doubt to overcome, I might as well do something ridiculous to match.”

 

Bobby sighs and looks to Sam. “You gonna be the voice of reason?”

 

Sam shakes his head and something in his joy makes his floppy mage haircut extra floppy. “Nope.”

 

Bobby gives Jo a pointed look.

 

At last, Jo holds the blade still, her hand around the hilt in a reverse grip. She looks up at Dean and, very seriously, asks, “You gonna be all right if he says no?”

 

“He’s not gonna say no.” Dean knows what he saw last night. He knows what he feels, and he believes in what Cas says he feels. Cas had spoken like he thought Dean would deny the adoration in his touch, and just remembering it tears at something deep in Dean’s gut. There’s a lot of things in an orphan’s life that could do that to a person, and Dean wants to root out every single one for a thorough salt-and-burn.

 

Jo rolls her eyes. “Sure. But are you gonna be all right if he does say no?”

 

“I’ll be better than if I don’t try,” Dean says. He’s not letting three months go by with Cas thinking his feelings aren’t properly requited. Or worse: the full six. If Cas doesn’t say yes tonight, that’s fine, because Dean can wait. He really can. He’s not about to go kissing anyone else. “I’d rather have him think I’m nuts than let him think I don’t care enough.”

 

Jo nods. Behind her, Bobby sighs. Jo reaches back to set the blade down on Bobby’s desk. She nods up at Dean again and says, “All right then.”

 

Sammy does another stupid little bounce, the nerd.

 

“Bobby?” Dean asks. “Will you bear witness?”

 

“I sure as hell ain’t kissing you,” Bobby says, looking a disgruntled kind of concerned. It’s as close to a blessing as Dean’s going to get out of him.

 

“Thanks,” Dean says. He clears his throat and squares his stance and looks down at Jo. As if in a continuation of their training, she matches him perfectly.

 

“Dame Joanna,” he says, expression serious.

 

“Sir Dean,” she says, lips twitching, and Sam’s still grinning like a fucking idiot off on the side.

 

“Will you be my Last Unwed Kiss?” Dean asks her.

 

“I will,” Jo says, and she starts smiling fit to beat Sam.

 

Dean smiles right back, even wider, and it takes them a second to line things up, Jo standing still and guiding him down with a hand on his shoulder. He presses his lips to hers and they hold there until she pulls away with a giggle that has nothing to do with his sexual prowess and everything to do with the sheer giddy _joy_ of the moment.

 

“Good luck,” Jo says.

 

“You’ll need it,” Bobby says.

 

Dean looks at Sam.

 

“Hey, I’m not looking ahead for this,” Sam says. “I mean, I know you’re doing this in the courtyard while I give my Last Unwed Kiss to Nick, but I don’t know how it goes.”

 

“You’re annoyingly vague sometimes, you know that?” Though at least now Dean doesn’t have to ask if Sam’s all right with Dean not bearing witness for him.

 

“Seer,” Sam says in explanation, shrugging. “We’re way less helpful than you’d think. I told you, I just know where you’ll be when I need you, or when something important is happening to you.” He grins, wide and obnoxious, his nose wrinkling. “Besides, there’s some stuff I’m just not willing to risk looking at, and you getting it on is one of them.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “We’re not gonna get it on in the courtyard, Sam.”

 

“Um, no,” Sam says, “but you two are going to be up in the observatory tower come midnight, and I don’t wanna know.”

 

Dean points at Bobby and says, “Ha!” Then the time sinks in. “Sammy, midnight. You’re sure?” Cas heads out at eleven-forty, at the latest. Unless…

 

Unless he’s spending the night.

 

Cas is spending the night. Cas is going to say _yes_ , and then he’s _spending the night_.

 

“Yeah,” Sam says, using that tone where he’s not at all disappointed, carefully so, which of course means that he is. It takes Dean’s brain a second to catch up, too busy running through the implications with Cas.

 

“Wait, that’s when you’re kissing Jess, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says again, like it doesn’t matter, which means it does. He smiles and it’s a very good imitation of his sincere one. “But it’s not like I’ll be there for yours either, right? So it’s fine.”

 

“Sam,” Dean says.

 

“It’s fine,” Sam repeats.

 

To the side, both Bobby and Jo have either taken an abrupt interest in the angel blade on Bobby’s desk, or they are very much pretending not to be here for this conversation. Probably a bit of both, in Jo’s case.

 

“No, I should be there,” Dean says. “I mean, c’mon, man, it’s your birthday.”

 

“Hey, I’ve fucked up your birthday worse,” Sam says, and that’s… not something Dean ever thought he’d hear Sam say.

 

“You were two,” Dean says.

 

“Which is why I didn’t know I’d fucked it up,” Sam says. “Which is why I want you to have this. You should have this.”

 

“Look, we’ll… We’ll pop in,” Dean says. “Maybe we won’t catch the big moments but we’ll– I’ll be there.”

 

“You don’t have to–” Sam’s eyes go distant. He starts smiling and looks down and smiles wider and looks back to Dean. “Yeah, you will. Thanks.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and definitely doesn’t need to clear his throat. “It’s not a big deal.”

 

“There somewhere else you want to have this conversation, Your Highnesses?” Bobby asks.

 

“Nah, we’re good,” Dean says at the same time Sam says, “Sure.”

 

“Jo and I gotta shower and change,” Dean says.

 

“I can wait,” Sam says. “Bobby and I were talking anyway. Security stuff. Pretty sure that fire dream wasn’t a vision, but, uh. Yeah.” Then: “What’s with the short sword? Wasn’t that in the boxes you showed Cas?”

 

“Tell you later,” Dean says. “And don’t touch it without your gloves.”

 

Sam shoots both him and it a curious look, but he nods his assent.

 

“Happy birthday,” Jo bids him as they exit the office, which means everyone in the barracks now knows who’s in with Bobby. The corresponding shift in speed and formality occurs, no one knowing for certain when their Mage Prince will appear to judge them all – or if, through his visions, he already has.

 

Dean rolls his eyes at it all and hits the shower. Jo sticks with him all the way, a bundle of questions about the potential enchantments on the blade, and just as many theories as to its forging. Some days, Dean thinks she should have taken that fire magic of hers and just become a blacksmith instead. He tells her this, not for the first time, and Jo’s eyes get this little gleam to them, also not for the first time.

 

“Maybe,” she says, because it’s not as if all of them can keep patrolling forever. Then she says, “Hold on, speaking of knives.”

 

Out of the showers, still in her towel, she digs through her folded pile of clothes. She pauses, snaps her fingers, and then reaches into one of her boots. It’s a small thing she retrieves, almost more handle than blade and not much of that, but it is good iron.

 

“For luck,” Jo says, offering the small knife, along with a sheath on a leather band. “Mom gave it to Dad as a courtship gift before she proposed. It’s a good boot knife, too. Doesn’t slide around at all.”

 

People look at them for the exchange, and more than a few of those looks are knowing. Some are curious and none dare disapprove, no matter how obvious he’s been with Cas.

 

“Thanks, Jo,” Dean says, taking it, and Jo shows him how to put it on so it sits comfortably. He has to force himself to focus, too distracted by the thought of a courtship gift of his own. Something he could give Cas when he visits the university. Not a knife, not for Cas. A portable writing kit, maybe, with little compartments and spill-proof ink bottles. Something to fill to the brim with all the stationary Cas could ever want. He’s pretty sure Sam’s kit is a decade old and still looks good; something else to ask Sam about.

 

After, dried off and back in civilian clothing, Dean checks back in on Sam and Bobby. He interrupts a conversation about the trickier parts of being a good husband, but that might be for the best. Even all these years later, Bobby still gets this look when he talks about Karen for too long.

 

Dean retrieves the angel blade – not that he believes it really is, just yet, but it’s as good a name as any – and nods Sam out. They make their goodbyes to Bobby, and Sam follows Dean to the corner of the armory that Cleric Jim favors.

 

“Birthday boy doesn’t have anything better to do?” Dean asks, not sure what to make of his new and, frankly, looming shadow.

 

“Dad gave me the day off,” Sam says with a grin, as if that answers Dean’s question. “So what’s the story with the short sword?”

 

Dean summarizes while Cleric Jim looks through the available sheaths. He’ll commission one to fit properly, Dean quickly decides. Cleric Jim agrees, but they find something that doesn’t rattle or pinch. It’s in brown leather, not black, which won’t go with his belt or gloves but will match his mask. Good enough. Dean jots down the angel warding pattern while Cleric Jim takes the blade’s dimensions and Sam makes aesthetic suggestions. Between the three of them, they get a good design for the blade’s future home.

 

“Do you think they were real?” Sam asks after they’re done, the blade and temporary sheath riding on Dean’s hip.

 

Idly fingering the hilt, Dean shrugs. “Cas does, pretty seriously. Kinda feel like I’d have to read half a library just to argue with him coherently, so I’ve stopped arguing.” He pauses. “For now.”

 

“When you get that reading list, I want at it, too,” Sam says. Then he grabs Dean’s arm and says, “C’mon.”

 

“C’mon where?”

 

“Just c’mon.”

 

They walk in silence, Sam purposeful, Dean doubtful, until they go into the gardens instead of passing by them.

 

“You’re on,” Dean says the same second Sam says, “Race you.”

 

Sam fucking _bolts_ into the hedge maze, his long legs eating up the distance between them and the entrance. But once inside, it’s all sharp turns and rapid reorienting. They each take their own path and they take them at full speed. Birds burst out of the hedge as Dean darts past. He breaks into the center of the maze at the same time Sam does, each spotting the other across the flower-lined square.

 

Dean dives for it and Sam dives after, and this is how Dean winds up crowing his victory sprawled on a flat bench, belly against stone, his brother crashing over him.

 

“Too slow!” Dean shouts. Sam tries to shove him off the bench but Dean holds on, even with the blade’s hilt digging into his side. Finally, Sam gives up with a groan. Dean sits up, Sam sits down, and they both take a minute to breathe, Sam panting hard.

 

“Thought you’d have been gone long enough to forget the way,” Sam says.

 

“I’m not gone that much,” Dean says.

 

“You’re gone most of the time,” Sam says.

 

Dean shrugs a little. “That’s patrol for you.”

 

Slowly, the birds return. A willow warbler stares down at them from the top of the hedge before fluttering off in disdain. The breeze is slight but good, almost enough that Dean’s jacket doesn’t feel too warm. With a sigh, Sam tugs off his gloves and pockets them.

 

“I wish you were around more,” Sam says.

 

Dean shrugs a little more. “Not sure I fit the castle anymore, Sammy, an unpolished ruffian like me.”

 

Sam laughs as if that’s a joke. “Yeah. Right.” He leans back, bare hands flat on the bench behind him. He looks up at the clouds and sighs again. “Dean, I’m getting married in a week.”

 

“Yeah, I noticed.” The sighing is a little unexpected, though. “You only love the crap out of her.”

 

“I do,” Sam agrees immediately. “It’s just… I’m getting married in a _week_ , and my wife doesn’t even know you. Not really.”

 

“You’re the only thing Jess and I have in common,” Dean says. “And I guess you’re right. I’m not around that often.” He’s gonna have to warn Cas about that. “Though I get the feeling she wouldn’t like me all that much anyway.”

 

“It’s not that she doesn’t like you,” Sam says, which means he’s definitely talked this over with Jess already. “She’s just… protective of me.”

 

Dean pushes a laugh down into a grin and tries to make it look amused. “And, what, she doesn’t like that being protective of you is already my job?”

 

Sam smiles back, but it quickly turns… Not sad. Not exactly. He shakes his head. He looks away in a way that makes Dean look at him. “She thinks I should stop trying to live up to you so much.”

 

Dean stares. When that doesn’t work, he tries blinking. He goes back to the staring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Sam shrugs and goes back to looking up at the clouds. His body language remains open, exposed, but only because his hands grip the bench too tightly behind him. “Forget it.”

 

“Uh-huh. Right. Sammy, you don’t bring up shit you don’t want to talk about. What the fuck are you trying to live up to?”

 

Sam looks at him then, Dean’s confusion mirrored on his face. “What?”

 

“No, you brought this up, you’re the one who knows what he’s talking about,” Dean tells him. “What _are_ you talking about?”

 

Sam’s face does this thing Dean can’t wholly parse, something with eyebrows and frowning and eyes flicking from side to side, like he’s reading a book of his own memories. Finally, Sam says, very unhelpfully, “Dean, you were going to be king.”

 

“No,” Dean says slowly. “You and Cas have a chat about ancient history while I wasn’t looking? ’Cause Knight Kings haven’t been a thing for like a thousand years.”

 

“That was a thing?” Sam asks, blinking and leaning in. His hands go from the bench to clenched atop his thighs. “Really?”

 

“I guess?” Dean says. “Ask Cas. If you’re not talking about that, what are you talking about?”

 

Sam looks down and deliberately opens his hands, laying them flat on his legs. “It’s just, when I was little. You were going to be king.”

 

“We _thought_ I was going to be king,” Dean corrects, wanting off the subject about twenty minutes ago. “Big difference.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “No, I mean.” He shakes his head again with a harder flop of his long hair before leaning forward, forearms on knees. He leans heavily enough that when he looks at Dean, he has to look up. “When I was little, _you were going to be king_. That’s how it was. I was born and it was ‘hi Sam, your parents are king and queen, you were ostensibly named after an ancient king but actually after your grandfather, and this is your brother Dean who will be king.’ And that’s… how the world was.”

 

“But it wasn’t,” Dean says.

 

“But I thought it was,” Sam says. He says it like this is the important part, so Dean tries to listen as if it is. “And then, one day, they told me _I’d_ be king, and no one thought to tell me that you wouldn’t be until I was four.”

 

Dean doesn’t mean to laugh. Not really. It’s not a loud laugh or a long laugh or even an amused laugh, but he does laugh. “Dude, no one should have needed to tell you that.”

 

“Dean, I was four,” Sam insists.

 

“I knew you only get one king at a time when I was four,” Dean says. He doesn’t remember, but he’d definitely bet on it. “Like, at the _most_ , you get a king and a prince consort.”

 

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean leans forward too, forearms on knees.

 

“Fine. What’s your point?”

 

Twisting his hands together, Sam watches his own fingers. “It’s something I went over a lot with Chuck when I was in training. Trying to get a handle on my powers and why they work the way they do. His are all bound up in stories and come out verbal and written because of all his own crap, but me, I mean, I didn’t even know how to read yet when mine started.”

 

“All right…” Dean says, still waiting for this to make sense.

 

“What it boils down to,” Sam says, “is that when I thought we were going to be kings together, it wasn’t scary. I figured, whatever I didn’t know how to do, you would know how to do. And maybe, someday, I’d know something you didn’t. And it would work that way. But then – I think it was my tutor – someone told me that it was just gonna be me, and that was…” He shakes his head, swallowing. He looks at Dean, and his eyes are too bright. “Dean, that was the scariest moment of my life.”

 

Dean looks back at him. At this tower of a man, a mage with a double talent, a rare seer and an unheard of vessel, and what Dean sees is a boy trying very hard not to cry.

 

“So, yeah,” Sam continues, rubbing at his eyes, once, twice. “I started always knowing where you were. Where you would be.”

 

“Was this the month you had to sleep in my bed?” Dean asks, trying for levity.

 

Sam pauses. “I’d forgotten about that. That wasn’t really the part that stood out.”

 

“Visions would do that,” Dean agrees.

 

Sam shakes his head. “No. I mean, what you told me.” And he looks at Dean like Dean should remember.

 

“To fuck off?” Dean guesses.

 

Sam laughs like it’s entirely a joke. “You don’t remember?”

 

“Not even a little.”

 

Hands now clasped instead of twisting, Sam says, “When I asked what you were going to do if you weren’t going to be king, you told me you had a more important job. The most important job in the country.”

 

Just like that, Dean knows. He knows the exact words, but it’s not his own mouth he remembers them from. “The king ensures the country’s future. The Knight Prince ensures the king’s future.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and he looks at Dean in a way he doesn’t deserve.

 

“You sure Dad didn’t tell you that?” Dean asks.

 

Sam laughs again. “No, it was definitely you.”

 

“Huh.” When Sam looks at him funny, Dean adds, “Dad’s the one who told me that, is all.”

 

“Really?”

 

“What, you thought a – what was I – an eight-year-old could come up with something that weighty?”

 

“Uh,” Sam says. “Yeah, actually.” He looks down and then smiles a little ruefully. “Fine, point taken. But I’m pretty sure the rest of it was you.”

 

“Sam, if you think I have any idea what I told you two decades ago, you got another think coming.”

 

“...That _was_ two decades ago,” Sam says. “Wow. We’re old.”

 

Dean snorts. “You turned twenty-five today, calm down.”

 

“You’re almost thirty.”

 

“Shut up.” They sit for a moment, side-by-side, watching tiny birds flit from one hedge to another. “What did I say, anyway?”

 

“I don’t know, a lot of stuff,” Sam says. “Just… a lot of stuff. Kid problems. How to get around Dad without going against him. I don’t think I realized how much you and Mom tag-teamed him until you were out on patrols.”

 

“It’s easier than butting heads,” Dean says. “Surprised neither one of you has cracked a skull by now.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “It’s just hard, y’know? I’m training up to do his job and he’s not going to delegate a single piece of it he actually cares about, not until he’s on his deathbed. You know he won’t. Maybe not even then. Anything important I’ve ever started, he’s grabbed up to finish.” He sighs. “It doesn’t help that he, well. I think it’s why Jess doesn’t like you. I know it’s not your fault, but it’s probably one of the reasons.”

 

“What is?” Dean asks. “Dad does a lot of shit, Sam, you gotta be more specific.”

 

“When he talks about you, it’s like you’re his only son,” Sam says. “‘My son slew a wyvern. My son exorcised half a village. My son’s beloved by the people and always does as he’s told.’ Sometimes, I just… What?”

 

“You know he does that about you too, right?” Dean asks, staring.

 

Sam stares at him in return. “Seriously?”

 

“Seriously,” Dean says. “Last night, he was doing it so much, Cas had no idea which one of us he was talking about. It went from ‘tell me about my son’s powers’ to ‘what are your intentions toward my son’ and, yeah, Cas rolled with it, but it was pretty confusing.”

 

“Huh,” Sam says.

 

They stare at each other a bit longer.

 

“Do you think that’s just how he talks?” Sam asks.

 

“It might be,” Dean says.

 

They keep on staring, years of baggage mirrored in each other’s faces.

 

“Do you ever think he wants us to be one person?” Sam asks.

 

“All the time,” Dean answers immediately.

 

“Just because he was an only child and had do all the Knight Prince stuff while being a mage,” Sam starts to say.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “That. All that.”

 

They stare at each other some more.

 

“Huh,” Sam repeats.

 

“Huh,” Dean agrees.

 

Thinking, they go back to watching the birds.

 

“I don’t want us to be one person,” Sam says. “But I… You know I can’t do this without you, right? All the things you do, finding out that people were rejecting the anti-possession tattoos because of blood sigil scares… You’re how I know what’s really happening out there. Maybe I’m not going to be the king you would have been–”

 

“You’re going to be better,” Dean tells him, and he tries to look like admitting that doesn’t gut him wide open. “What? You are. If I didn’t know that, I wouldn’t be cool with it. Because it’s not about me. It’s about the job, and getting it done. Besides, you love all of that law shit and policy debates. I’d go nuts, dealing with that.”

 

“After Dad, Parliament is easy,” Sam says. “You’d be fine.”

 

“Yeah, well, you’ll be great,” Dean says, not looking at him.

 

Slowly, beside him, he can hear Sam start to grin.

 

“Yeah?” Sam says.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says.

 

Sam keeps on grinning and, eventually, Dean starts to smile too. Far behind them, the clock tower begins to toll, signifying a morning more than half gone.

 

“You don’t have anywhere to be?” Dean asks.

 

“I’ve got here,” Sam says. “I mean, once I’m married, you’re back on patrol. I have to fit in the time somewhere.”

 

“It’s your birthday,” Dean says. “Spend it how you want, I guess.”

 

Sam snorts, very unbecomingly. “If I really got to do that, I wouldn’t be having the fifth consecutive night of the same party.”

 

“Yeah, you’re way too boring.”

 

Sam elbows him.

 

Dean elbows him back. “What’s the schedule for tonight, anyway?”

 

“Speeches start around eleven,” Sam says. “I’m meant to give my Last Unwed Kiss to Nick around eleven-thirty.”

 

“Which means eleven-forty.”

 

“Pretty much. I’m set on kissing Jess at midnight, though.”

 

“Sorry I’ll miss it,” Dean says, thinking of his apparent appointment in the observatory tower and smiling.

 

“You’ve got something more important,” Sam says. “I can feel that, y’know, sometimes. When something really important is going to happen to you.”

 

For something that’ll keep Cas overnight, he doesn’t need to ask. He asks it anyway. “And this is big?”

 

“Huge,” Sam says. “Most important thing I’ve ever felt for you. So. No pressure.”

 

“Cas leaves around eleven-forty, usually,” Dean says. “The place he’s staying locks up early and he doesn’t have a key.”

 

“After midnight isn’t that early,” Sam says, missing the point. Then: “Oh. _Oh_.”

 

“You’re sure about him being there at midnight?” Dean asks.

 

“Positive,” Sam says.

 

Dean can’t stop grinning. There’s no reason in the world to ever stop grinning, not when Cas is his and spending the night. “Awesome. Seriously, Sammy, the _mouth_ on that man. The way he kisses?”

 

“I don’t need to know this.”

 

“Kinda clumsy, but _really_ forceful.”

 

“Please stop talking. We used to watch the stars up there, and I don’t need to hear about you defiling it.”

 

Dean laughs.

 

“Jerk,” Sam calls him.

 

With no one to overhear him except the birds, Dean answers, “Bitch.”

 

They talk a bit more, Sam about the more interesting bits of the party Dean’s missed, Dean about Cas. Even with Cas leaving early each night, he’s still been the main event, as far as Dean’s concerned. The first two nights, he’d danced with other people. Loads of other people, that second night, after Cas had bid for time to think, because Dean has never handled rejection well.

 

The third night had been Cas and Cas alone, all night. And then the rest of it spent watching Sam like a hawk, effectively stationed in the throne room as an impromptu guard.

 

Last night, he’d kissed Cas goodbye before heading back down to the vault and retrieving the blade. He’d stood in the vault and looked too hard at everything in it. And he’d started to think too hard as well.

 

That’s not what Dean talks about, though. No, he talks about the rest of it. Sam wants to hear about the tablet, so it’s not just Dean running his mouth like a love-struck fool. Sam fixates on every single angel detail like the consummate nerd he is, but if Dean can give the guy a heart-to-heart on his birthday, he can give him this, too.

 

They talk longer than they have in ages, uninterrupted, just the two of them. It’s downright idyllic, with the breeze and the sunshine. Birds sing in the hedges and more than one butterfly flutters amid the flowers. It’s calm and strange and more than a little too perfect.

 

The clock tower tolls again, the hour chime followed by eleven long, resounding rings.

 

“What are you doing for lunch?” Sam asks.

 

“Whatever you’re doing, apparently.”

 

The grin he gets in response is almost enough to make up for whatever Sam’s menu of choice is. “Great.” Sam stands and Dean stands with him. “Jess and I are heading out into the city. There’s this restaurant she likes that I’ve never been able to go to.”

 

“Now I get it,” Dean says, taking his way out of the hedge maze and forcing Sam to follow. “You just want to get away with one fewer guard.”

 

Sam laughs a little, thumbs hooked into his belt. “That obvious?”

 

“Just a lot,” Dean says.

 

They walk out, Dean more unerring in the twists and turns on this side of the maze than Sam is. “Did Cas tell you where he was staying?” Sam asks. “Maybe we could drop in, take him out with us.”

 

“Yeah, that wouldn’t scare the crap out of him or anything. ‘Hey, man, it’s the future king and queen come to bring you to lunch, hope you’ve got a decent shirt you didn’t cut wing-holes in.’”

 

Sam laughs like that isn’t an actual concern Dean’s only just thought to have. “Maybe that would be a little overwhelming.”

 

“We can do that once he moves,” Dean decides. “When he’s living in the city, he can find all of those little places no one would ever expect you to show up at.”

 

“That’ll be fun,” Sam says, using the same tone he uses for his visions, for things that are definitely going to happen. They turn the final corner, away from a path toward a dead end, and Sam says, “Oh, hey, look.” He stops to stoop down and straightens with a finger-length black feather in hand. “You should stick this in a locket.”

 

“Fuck you,” Dean says, accepting the crow’s feather only to drop it. It’s a long one, for a crow, and on the fluffy side; the bird must’ve gotten attacked by something else nesting in the hedges.

 

“I’m telling Cas you spurned his love.”

 

“Yeah, you tell him that after I kiss him.”

 

Slightly more seriously, Sam says, “I don’t think our schedules match up enough for that.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, already decided in his course of action. “If speeches start at eleven, that’s everyone filtering into the throne room. Might be able to get a little privacy in the courtyard with that going on.” Cas’ll be more comfortable if Dean does this outside. Give the guy a little bit of fresh air, and he perks up like nobody’s business.

 

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what Cas’ living conditions must be like back home. He’ll find out. After all, he still has to get Cas’ address to send him letters, and Dean has to write to him first, if his plan to send Cas paper is going to happen.

 

He’s gotta get that guy out of there, wherever he is. Cas clearly isn’t happy, and Dean’s going to change that.

 

Dean’s gonna change a whole lot of things.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see what else I'm up to or get (potentially) faster responses to questions and comments, follow me on [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, everybody, and see you next week for night five!


	9. Fifth Night

Castiel has located the tablet: the news travels through the illusion of walls, from one mouth to another, throughout their entire empty realm.

 

There is joy and fear and confusion. There is rejoicing and tension and relief so acute as to be almost crippling. For the first time in a very long time, there is singing. They stretch their grace far between themselves, and though the sound is thin and flat, it is still jubilant.

 

In Castiel’s more direct experience, there are explanations and questions and more explanations. He shows Raphael one of his pages of notes, depicting one side of the tablet. He does not show the other page and makes no mention of it. To admit that he saw the other side of the tablet would be to admit that it was turned over, and thus taken out of its angel-warded case. To admit this would be to admit a failure to act, and now, returned to their realm of banishment, Castiel can no longer justify his hesitation.

 

Returned once more into their cage, the consequences of escaping it fade away.

 

And so he covers his true failure with partial facts and signs of progress. First and foremost, he speaks of the warded boxes. He speaks of Prince Dean’s invitation for Castiel to remove the objects himself and the necessity of not revealing his own nature to the human. He speaks of securing the transfer of the tablet – and warded box – to the university where Seer Shurley works. The seer’s prophecies have already led him to align himself with the angels; he will remove the tablet from its case and give it to them once they open a portal there.

 

Castiel speaks of having arranged the beginnings of a delivery plan with Prince Dean. As the human prince does not think Castiel a warrior, he fears for Castiel’s safety and will not entrust the box to him. For a human, it is two days’ hard travel from the castle to the university, and the transfer of the tablet will not occur until after the younger prince is wed. They have ten days until freedom, perhaps as many as twelve.

 

Days.

 

That word takes flight as if having wings of its own.

 

After six and a half centuries: _days_.

 

Raphael condescends to give Castiel an approving nod. Once having pressed Castiel for all the details Castiel finds safe to give him, Raphael pronounces the plan acceptable. He cautions Castiel against any missteps tonight and urges him to speed the delivery.

 

Castiel explains that a speedier delivery would result in knights accompanying Castiel to the university. They would expect him to travel wingless, and, out of loyalty to Prince Dean, they would likely not allow Castiel out of their sight for safekeeping on the road.

 

That explanation only earns further questions. Here, Castiel holds his wings more naturally, but he keeps them just as still as he would in the human castle as he explains. Prince Dean has grown very fond of him. Prince Dean thinks him a human researcher and has offered him a support position behind the kingdom’s knight hunters, which Castiel has feigned to accept. Prince Dean has offered resources in order to hasten Castiel’s installation at this post.

 

As he listens, Raphael’s feathers ruffle in amusement, and inside Castiel’s chest, a centuries-old dislike abruptly boils into hatred.

 

He keeps it down. He keeps it contained. But he does keep it.

 

Castiel turns his report away from Dean and to more troubling implications. He reminds Raphael that they doubted this tablet would be the one they sought, due to the location where it was found. The tablet had been in demon hands. It is, unquestionably, the correct tablet. The demons ought to have sent it to their brethren’s realm of banishment to unleash them, but they hadn’t.

 

Raphael dismisses this as a concern for Castiel’s superiors to ruminate upon. It is Castiel’s duty to retrieve the tablet, not dwell upon the inaction of their enemies.

 

Castiel insists. Having chosen his timing, he reveals that there was a second box, also warded against them, which contained an angel’s blade. He does not say to whom the blade belonged; his story is consistent and leaves out all mentions of any item being removed from the warded boxes. He simply states that there was a blade, also unused by demons.

 

Two powerful tools in demon hands, neither put to use. Even supposing that all the demons capable of opening portals had been banished, even supposing these weaker dregs have no ability to transfer the tablet to their fellows, surely an angel blade would have been a prized weapon. They certainly had been during the war.

 

This gives Raphael pause. They review Seer Shurley’s prophecy and summon Uriel for further confirmation.

 

The prophecy remains absurdly straightforward. _In Winchester Castle lies the key to the return of angels, and to the return of Lucifer’s might; beware, for demons know._

 

They have found the key. They have begun to secure it to unlock their own cage, denying Lucifer his own return and the return of his greater demons. Having lost it themselves, the demons clearly know where the tablet is. Castiel had thought the extensive warding built into the very structure of the castle had kept them from pursuit, but perhaps their own inability to use the tablet had halted the effort before it had even begun.

 

It’s the inability that nags at Castiel. He remembers well the havoc the demons wreaked upon them during the war through the use of portals – they all do. Was that ability only possessed by the strongest among them? It’s the only explanation Castiel can think of, but it doesn’t explain why the banished demons haven’t discovered a means to do exactly what Castiel is doing. Lucifer had some knowledge of portals, and he is, after all, with his greater demons. Surely, with his knowledge, they could have made _something_ by now.

 

Yes, the portal Castiel is using is extremely limited. It’s a cramp fit and allows passage for one and only one. When he passes through, the spell ties itself to him, and he is the only one who may return through the portal. No new portals may be opened with the same spell until he returns, and it is the only spell they have. The strain of opening it has to be spread across many angels at a time.

 

It’s a difficult spell, one Uriel himself pieced together in their first century of banishment. Perhaps one of the older angels specializing in portals would have made something simpler, but as they’d been killed in the war, the point is moot.

 

With this in mind, Castiel bears out the rest of his debriefing and stays to listen to Uriel’s much repeated reports of his information network. Uriel has no knowledge of the demons using portals during the span of their banishment, which is hardly evidence against that use. The entire problem with portals is their difficulty in being tracked or detected after the fact.

 

When Uriel is dismissed, Castiel leaves with him. Using their grace to thicken the space around them, they fly through airless space to a recreation of a park Joshua had once tended. They stand there, watching leaves soundlessly blow, watching shadows dapple the ground in a realm with no sun. But time is short, and they also ask each other questions. Uriel looks at him sharply whenever Castiel speaks of Prince Dean, and so Castiel quiets on the subject. He asks about the creation of portals instead and wishes to hear Uriel’s thoughts on the demons’ behavior.

 

Uriel has few answers. He responds with his typical dismissive reassurance, an attitude that Balthazar has been trying to replicate for centuries.

 

When Castiel asks his brother if he’s certain Lucifer was banished with his demons, Uriel’s dismissiveness drops. Not for the first time – not even the first time this week – Uriel explains the banishment spell used to bring about their current situation. Though the banishing tablet was consumed upon the moment of its use, the symbols are clearly etched inside his mind. The subsection of the incantation tying Lucifer to his demons and archdemons had to be precise in the extreme, which Uriel well knows as one of its composers.

 

Castiel listens to the flow of his brother’s deep voice, each word a reassurance that fails to soothe.

 

There’s something they’re missing. Castiel is certain of it, and he says as much.

 

Uriel asks if it’s enough to interfere with the retrieval of the tablet, this illusive _something_ of Castiel’s.

 

Logically, Castiel knows it isn’t. This conundrum of demons and portals is a side note at best. The only thing that can prevent their freedom now is the discovery of Castiel’s deception, and all Castiel must do is hold it for one more night. Soon, they will be free.

 

As Castiel has never been skilled in reassurances, dismissive or otherwise, Uriel’s feathers lie flat all the same. Castiel permits his to follow.

 

Regardless of Uriel’s doubts or Castiel’s strain, in the distance, they hear singing. Different songs in multiple directions: many are singing. The sheer amount of grace required to thicken that much space is wasteful, immense. Festive. In thoughts that feel even more distant than those voices, Castiel supposes there is much to rejoice over.

 

But he does not sing, and neither does Uriel.

 

Later, when he finds Balthazar, his brother is already singing. Hannah chimes in for absent-minded refrains before catching sight of Castiel. She pulls him in, then, and Balthazar changes his tune to something they can dance to. The motions feel heavy for all Hannah leaps into them with ease.

 

Today, there are no briefings other than the one he himself gave Raphael. There is no last-minute research, and Balthazar has already finished alterations for Castiel’s outfit tonight. Castiel is to layer his shirt with a light blue vest, onto which Balthazar has woven the semblance of sleeves with borrowed, dark blue ribbon. The ribbons are communal and have been for centuries; they’re lucky a newly mated couple was sentimental enough to have them in their belt pouches at the time of the banishing. The same two sets have been used in every joining ceremony since. Giving them up to Castiel is an act of collective faith.

 

Despite the lack of new materials, the overall effect of Castiel’s outfit is reasonably refined. Certainly, it looks delicate, which is perhaps the same thing. For tonight, it will have to be close enough.

 

The remainder of the ribbon serves its original use as a nesting display. When the hour of his final departure draws near, Castiel folds his wings into that unnatural posture for the last time. He has to consciously fluff his feathers to allow the ribbon to be woven through them, and even then, Hannah has difficulty with the task. She teases the ribbon into place while Balthazar simply teases.

 

It looks good, Balthazar assures him. He adds that it’s a pity dear Prince Dean won’t know the significance, and Castiel pointedly ignores him. Hannah does not.

 

She and Balthazar discuss Dean. They discuss him plainly and frankly, and they edge toward Castiel’s thoughts on the subject without the slightest hint of subtlety. Castiel says nothing. His mouth is a strangely empty thing, containing only teeth and tongue and not a trace of breath. The same texture they’ve always been, his lips press together and feel as wrong and useless as holding his own hand. At last tired of Castiel’s silence, Balthazar accuses him of affection.

 

When Castiel cannot answer, his siblings know something is wrong.

 

Balthazar rolls his eyes before tugging Castiel close with his wings. With his own already bound by the ribbons, Castiel has to endure the indignity of being completely enveloped by his brother’s wings.

 

Hannah takes a harsher approach in her concern.

 

Very deliberately, very carefully, she looks Castiel in the eyes. She pushes on his shoulder until he looks back. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he isn’t to falter now, not for the sake of a single human man.

 

Castiel agrees, and wishes he didn’t.

  
  


For the last time, he steps through the portal and into the hedge maze. For the last time, he makes a quick escape from the garden, posing as just another guest waiting for the entry line to abate. For the second and last time, Castiel watches that line part before him.

 

He enters the castle proper and makes his way to the tapestry. The costumes of those around him are grand and shimmering with enchantments, each a statement of wealth, power, or both. Here, a woman in the guise of a dragon, scales gleaming, a light smoke unfurling from the flared nostrils of her mask. There, a man endeavoring to become an edifice, his outfit no doubt an impression of a building another human would recognize. More than one guest wears a small waterfall as a jacket, the streams falling down the back and rising up the front; it seems a popular spell.

 

None of these are important. None of these people sport silver-tipped horns.

 

He stops before the tapestry and waits. He stops scanning the crowd and bids himself calm. He studies the tapestry that brought him and Dean together, and he bids himself calm once more.

 

The colors are still wrong, he notes. The clothing is in a human style that makes no allowances for the wings, as if the longest limbs of the body could simply be expected to phase through the back of a shirt. The woven rendition of Michael wears his sword on his hip, as if an angel blade has ever been _worn_. And Lucifer himself, positioned wrong, colored wrong, the twist of his face passable.

 

Though most works of angelic art are vague at facial features, favoring depictions of the wings for identification, humans seem to value the face highly. At this masquerade, humans hide their faces as if that is enough to conceal who they are from each other. Without wings, perhaps it is. Castiel certainly can’t tell most of them apart without checking the costumes for reference.

 

With that thought, Castiel scans the crowd again. No, none of these people are Dean in a different costume. He’s almost sure of it.

 

He turns back to the tapestry and waits. Should he be searching? Had he said something last night that would alienate Dean? Even through the filter of a fear-fueled analysis, he can’t think of anything. He forces his mind back to their parting kiss at the gates and, no, Dean hadn’t wanted him to go. Castiel’s eyes slide shut at the memory of Dean not wanting him to go. The softness of his mouth, the firm grip of his hand. No, Dean still wants him, for now.

 

Perhaps Castiel should be searching. Dame Joanna didn’t give him instructions tonight. Was it presumed they would meet here? Castiel had assumed so. He stares up at the tapestry, weighing the benefits of searching or staying, and then he hears the crowd shift behind him.

 

Voices quiet, or they move away. Directly behind him, there are fewer footsteps, quickly dwindling until there are none at all. There’s the telltale shift of air that indicates empty space.

 

Castiel turns around.

 

His face masked beneath entirely silver horns, Dean smiles. Through the mask, through the empty distance between them, the warmth of his eyes reaches out. His jacket is different, the silver embroidery heavier, the buttons more ornate. A brown leather sheath rides at his hip, and the hilt is one Castiel knows well. Dean turns the absurd regal, the seeming-silver of Michael’s blade a fitting match for him.

 

Castiel should bow in greeting. With so many eyes upon them – upon him – this is the expected gesture. But what comes out instead is a gesture of his own people, translated into human terms. Palms up, wrists bared, his arms gently lift in supplication, mimicking the motions of a kneeling angel’s wings: curved forward, the more vulnerable undersides displayed.

 

Grin widening, Dean strides forward through that immense, inconsequential distance to take both of Castiel’s hands in his. Leather slides across Castiel’s palms and between his fingers, and Dean smiles into his face all the while.

 

“Hey,” Dean says.

 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies.

 

Dean’s grin flashes brighter, the first sign of Castiel’s misstep. The murmuring around them is the second sign.

 

“Sir Dean, I meant,” Castiel corrects, too late.

 

“I know what you meant,” Dean says, releasing one of Castiel’s hands to lift the other to his mouth. Their fingers woven, his nose against his own knuckles, Dean presses a kiss to the back of Castiel’s hand. Before Dean can lower their hands, Castiel pulls lightly, drawing Dean’s hand to his mouth and replicating the gesture.

 

He watches Dean’s eyes as he does, and is treated to the rare sight of green fire. Only then does Castiel lower their hands. He does not let go, and neither does Dean. People are watching, some blatant in their stares, and to say Dean doesn’t seem to care would be a falsehood. Dean revels in the act of ignoring their audience. Regardless of the number of their watchers, this moment is for them alone. Castiel clings to it, to the moment, to Dean’s attention, to every last touch.

 

“Nice touch with the wings,” Dean says. His free hand rises over Castiel’s shoulder to stroke the ribbon held in place under his right alula. “Your own idea, or ancient angel records or something?”

 

“My brother’s idea,” Castiel says, not wanting to seem too forward. Whether Balthazar meant it as support or mockery, Castiel still isn’t certain, but it is, on a practical level, the only means they had available to enhance his “costume” for the final night.

 

“It looks good,” Dean says, this thumb brushing over alula and ribbon alike. If Dean touched Castiel’s palm that way, Castiel would immediately take hold of his finger; not doing the same here is a challenge, limited reach of his alula or not.

 

Castiel instead responds by shifting his shoulder back, and Dean relinquishes the contact. Despite being the one to instigate the change, Castiel dislikes it, and he compensates by holding Dean’s hand tighter. “Thank you,” he remembers to say, as if he isn’t dressed for a joining ceremony, ready to exchange the keeping of his blade for Dean’s. Speaking of which: “You’ve taken that into your personal armory, then.”

 

“Changed up the daily training a little this morning,” Dean replies with a shrug. He leans in close with a private grin. “And now we match.”

 

“Match,” Castiel echoes, irrationally checking that he has not, in fact, summoned his own blade. It would be trapped inside his sleeve if he had, with the way the woven ribbons down his arms are secured into a tighter cuff than the norm.

 

“Angel blade and angel wings?” Dean prompts, still holding himself close. Beyond their hands, though, they do not touch, and Castiel uses the distraction of proximity as an excuse for his confusion.

 

“Right,” he says, intentionally staring at Dean’s mouth. He pulls his eyes up to meet Dean’s, and now they are both distracted.

 

“Where do you want to start tonight?” Dean asks. “I’m thinking we steer clear of the throne room, it’s getting pretty formal in there. Plus, if my mom sees you, she’s definitely going to snag a dance.”

 

Castiel looks at Dean’s mouth again. He has slightly over four hours left with this man, and he knows how he’d like to spend at least some of that time. “The library?” he suggests.

 

“We gotta work on your idea of a good party, man,” Dean says. Despite his words, he clearly understands Castiel’s meaning, enough to lick his lips over it. They are still in a crowded hall and people are still watching, but even so.

 

Even so.

 

“I would be most appreciative of your tutelage,” Castiel promises.

 

“In that case…” Dean’s grin turns teasing before he pulls away. Though there’s no contact down Castiel’s side to sever, he grows cold all the same, even as Dean tugs Castiel after him. Dean tucks Castiel’s hand into the crook of his elbow and the resulting position is a closer one as they walk. When Castiel seeks to turn, Dean keeps him on a different path, one Castiel looks askance at.

 

“Party basics, Cas,” Dean explains as they pass the stairs. “Food and booze.”

 

They enter the great hall, which is as full of people as it is music and refreshments. Castiel cares for none of it, save for perhaps the music. But where Dean goes, Castiel follows. He cannot do otherwise.

 

At the tables loaded with unfamiliar and presumably edible items, Dean begins his tutelage. Castiel feigns interest to the best of his ability, which is to say, poorly. Grinning widely, Dean immediately calls him on it.

 

“You’d think a guy living on university fare would want to take advantage of this situation here,” Dean says, gesturing with his own loaded plate.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Castiel explains.

 

“Now I know that’s not true,” Dean says, and he closes one of his eyes. It’s clearly a euphemism, but Castiel isn’t entirely certain as to its meaning. “I know for a fact you were ravenous yesterday. Don’t tell me you’re already full.”

 

The euphemism is now clear.

 

“No,” Castiel answers, refusing to look away from Dean’s face. “It’s a more specific hunger.”

 

Dean smirks, leaning closer. “You got yourself a craving, huh?”

 

Castiel locks eyes with him. He holds Dean’s gaze long and steady, and he does not move until Dean’s smirk slips. Then, and only then, does he permit his eyes to drop to Dean’s mouth. When Dean licks his lips, Castiel rumbles, “Yes.”

 

Already in the shadow of his mask, Dean’s eyes darken further. His nostrils flare. Experience tells Castiel that there is a faint pink tinge to Dean’s cheeks, currently hidden. A small pastry falls off Dean’s plate and back onto the table as Dean leans even closer to hiss in Castiel’s ear, “Dude, you can’t say that shit.”

 

“I wasn’t aware I’d said anything inappropriate,” Castiel replies, very much entranced by the way Dean bends toward him. Though technically chest to chest, they’re offset slightly, the better to whisper closely. Very easily, Castiel could set his free hand upon Dean’s hip, but the presence of Michael’s sword does more to stop him than any number of onlookers.

 

“You know what you’re doing,” Dean tells him, breath hot on Castiel’s ear when Dean’s mouth would be hotter. They’re looking past each other, over each other’s shoulders. If Dean would simply turn his head, they could be kissing. “You can’t do that here, Cas.”

 

“Then tell me where,” Castiel instructs.

 

Dean does turn his head, but not for kissing. His nose presses against the top of Castiel’s ear, the deer mask brushing Castiel’s hair. Hotly, so hotly, Dean whispers, “Cas, if you don’t want to end tonight with me taking you up against a wall, you gotta rein it in, _now_.”

 

Castiel’s eyes flicker shut. He tries to keep them open but the heat of Dean’s words and his own imagination are too strong.

 

“Not a bad way to top things off,” Dean continues, almost out of breath at his own thoughts as well. “But I get the feeling you’re not ready for that.”

 

Castiel swallows down air and hope and disappointment. “You’re right,” he says, infuriated to know what he could have had under better, more honest circumstances. “My wings would be in the way.”

 

Eyes as wide as they are dark, Dean pulls away sharply to look him in the face. “Is that the only issue? Because if that’s the only issue…”

 

“That’s not the only issue,” Castiel reluctantly admits.

 

“That’s fine,” Dean says too quickly. He steps back for further measure, the sudden lack of him as displeasing as an airless void. “That’s totally fine.”

 

“It isn’t,” Castiel says. He would know this man carnally, if he could, with a desire as strong as it is sudden and unsettling. He would know this man in so many ways.

 

“We’ll have more time,” Dean assures him, a promise as casual as the motions of his hands as he fills Castiel’s plate for him. “There, that’s the good stuff.”

 

Castiel accepts both the food and change of subject with as much patience as he can. “I would have thought it was all ‘the good stuff.’”

 

“Yeah, but that’s going by Sam’s standards.” Dean proceeds to explain Prince Samuel’s standards and why they are awful. Finding the entire thing absurd, Castiel doesn’t pretend to understand.

 

With Dean no longer pressed so closely against Castiel’s side, other party-goers presume their conversation to be open for newcomers. Thus, Castiel endures a group discussion on matters he knows little about and cares for even less. Each moment is another moment wasted until Castiel simply gives up the pretense of being sociable and chooses to watch Dean instead.

 

Dean is talkative. He doesn’t bloom under the attention but neither does he wilt. It takes debate for him to thrive, even one as inconsequential as the respective merits of various pastry forms. However ludicrous, his arguments are clearly keenly felt. He is drawn most to those who stand against him; though he acknowledges his allies and their contributions, it is his opposition he encourages most to speak, the better to attack them. Where Dean is rude, he is fond. Where Dean is polite, there is another implication.

 

Standing beside Dean, emptying the plate Dean had filled for him, Castiel slowly formulates his own opinions on foodstuffs. Namely, that chewing on them neatly excuses the chewer from conversing, and thus small plates ought to be carried for tactical purposes.

 

When his at last is empty, he touches Dean’s elbow and excuses himself from the circle of conversation. He returns with a glass in each hand and though his spot has been filled in his absence, it is quickly cleared once more. He passes Dean the extra drink and receives a smile in return. While Castiel is uncertain what the beverage actually is, it’s the same as they drank that first night outside in the courtyard and, looking into Dean’s eyes, it’s clear Dean recalls.

 

How strange, to be so sentimental over something so recent.

 

They drink while others talk, and Castiel is increasingly prodded to speak by those around them. Discussion of fashion garners looks at his sleeves. Mention of current events results in looks between him and Dean. Every manner of comment has a barb of curiosity behind it, and Castiel keeps his silence, save for when Dean speaks to him.

 

Eventually, there comes a question Castiel cannot avoid without giving offense. Such are the dangers of being singled out. A nobleman asks him directly whether, having made a study of angels, Castiel has also made a study of the ancient tongue. “It’s an area of interest of mine, you see,” the man explains. Had he wings, they would be fluffed and fanning, full of pride and empty air.

 

“ _Do you speak it as well as read it?_ ” Castiel responds in the dialect of his youth, the accent coming more easily than modern pronunciation does. Perhaps that’s the reason Balthazar refuses to adapt with the times.

 

Eyes widening fractionally, the nobleman responds almost in kind. “ _My, how finery your sounds._ ”

 

“ _I thank you for the compliment and question your understanding,_ ” Castiel replies.

 

Thoroughly answering that question, the man responds by laughing as if at a fine jest. The woman standing across from him, however, says, “ _The question is fair. Your words do not wear clothes._ ”

 

Castiel looks to her with abrupt interest, only for Dean to slip his hand through the crook of Castiel’s elbow.

 

“Better stop that here, before you two start talking all night,” Dean says. His empty glass has vanished somewhere, a feat that occurs with remarkable frequency around the prince. “As lovely as your company has been, I need to dance with an angel.” With that, he withdraws Castiel from a group of his own making.

 

“Is there a reason you didn’t want me talking to her?” Castiel asks quietly as they move to the portion of the room reserved for dancing.

 

“Who?” Dean asks.

 

“The woman dressed as a storm cloud,” Castiel clarifies.

 

“What?” Dean says. “Oh, uh, no, Lady Linda’s fine. I mean, you might have wound up getting grilled about whether you’ve seen her son at the university, but, uh, no. Nothing wrong with her.”

 

“Then…?” The abrupt departure speaks of jealousy, as does the rapid reclaiming of Castiel’s arm.

 

Dean tugs him into position with firm hands. They count for three beats before beginning to move, and it’s clear Dean views this as a distraction.

 

“Dean?” Castiel prompts.

 

“I’m just saying,” Dean tells him, feigning irritation, “if you could find some way of talking that _isn’t_ sexy as fuck, I wouldn’t have to haul you away for a bit of privacy.”

 

“This isn’t privacy,” Castiel says. Only says, not complains.

 

“It’s closer to privacy,” Dean says, and he’s watching Castiel’s mouth instead of watching where they’re going. Castiel takes the lead easily, but as much as he’d enjoy guiding Dean into twists and turns, there is something to be said for remaining face-to-face.

 

“We could get privacy,” Castiel says. Says, not suggests.

 

Dean bites his lip, indecision clearly warring across his features.

 

Castiel presses his advantage. He keeps his eyes on Dean’s as much as he can without bumping them into another couple, and he lowers his hand from Dean’s waist to his hip. He speaks in the oldest dialect of his fledgling years, saying, “ _I would hold you properly before we part. Are you not tired of aching?_ ”

 

Through the holes of his mask, Dean’s eyes are wide and round and dark. His lips, parted and lush, faintly shine after he licks them. “I have no idea what you said,” he says, voice low and breathless from far more than the exertion of dancing.

 

Castiel lifts their arms, guiding Dean into a turn, but he catches Dean halfway through, keeping Dean’s back nearly against his front. Dean copes well with the transition, effectively reversing his steps without a stumble. He only makes the slightest misstep when Castiel rumbles into his ear, “You know exactly what I said.”

 

“Shit, Cas,” Dean curses softly, as soft as the brush of his hair against the side of Castiel’s face. Castiel’s feathered mask forbids much of the touch, but below it, this is a sensation to be savored.

 

After three more steps, there’s an opening for another turn, and Dean takes it, rotating himself in such a way as to drag against Castiel’s hands. Again facing Castiel, Dean looks more than half ready to kiss him then and there, regardless of their audience.

 

Their legs nearly interlaced from one step to the next, Castiel shifts closer.

 

Dean catches him, a hand against his chest.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Eleven,” Dean says.

 

Castiel blinks. “Eleven what?”

 

“O’clock,” Dean says.

 

“Eleven,” Castiel repeats.

 

“Yeah.”

 

The hour is still closer to eight than it is nine. Three hours have never loomed so long.

 

“Why?” Castiel asks.

 

“I, uh,” Dean says, unhelpfully licking his lips again. “I’ve been, um. I’m supposed to be at least a little social at this thing, right? Talk to people besides this one awesome guy I found.”

 

“You’ve already stopped,” Castiel points out.

 

“A short us-break,” Dean says. “And then back to it.”

 

“Short?” Castiel echoes as the song draws to a close.

 

“Not that short. One full song, then back in.”

 

This is almost acceptable, save for the part where there is no kissing involved.

 

“I know,” Dean says, somehow reading Castiel’s emotions by his facial features alone. “Just gotta hold out until eleven.”

 

“What happens then?”

 

“Speeches,” Dean explains, taking the lead for this next dance. The beat is faster, and Castiel entrusts himself to Dean accordingly. “All the big talk about the future of the kingdom starts around eleven. Eleven-thirty, Sam gives away his Last Unwed Kiss, then more speeches. Midnight, he and Jess kiss and are officially engaged.”

 

This is even worse news. “Don’t you have to be there?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “Talked it over with Sam. Everyone else is going to pack into the throne room for a look, so that’s us with the courtyard all to ourselves.”

 

“And I can kiss you then?” Castiel asks.

 

“You’d better,” Dean tells him with the utmost seriousness.

 

“The moment you let me, I will,” Castiel promises.

 

The way Dean looks at him then, Castiel will remember for the rest of his life. He knows he will.

 

“Cas, I,” Dean starts to say. He stops himself, locking that thought away behind his teeth where Castiel is not yet permitted to taste it. Instead, Dean says, “I don’t have your address.”

 

“What?” says Castiel.

 

“To write to you,” Dean says, coaxing Castiel through a turn. “I don’t have your address.”

 

“Write to me at the university,” Castiel says after a pause.

 

“Why?” Dean asks, a reasonable yet dreaded question.

 

“Because if you think Balthazar wouldn’t read your letters before giving them to me, then I haven’t properly explained him to you,” Castiel answers. “And if you came in person without warning, I don’t think Uriel would ever forgive me.”

 

“He knows it’s illegal to open your mail, right?” Dean asks. “When it’s from me, that’s extra illegal.”

 

“If you write to me at the university,” Castiel says, “you won’t have to arrest my brother.”

 

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Your family sounds kind of ridiculous.”

 

For a few precious moments, conversation is set aside in favor of movement and touching and the coordination that comes of longing for that touch.

 

Then Dean quietly asks, “Is it a bad enough part of town that you don’t want to say?”

 

“It’s nowhere I’d want you to go,” Castiel says honestly. “Write to me at the university.”

 

Having already pulled Castiel close, Dean pulls Castiel closer. “We’re getting you out of there,” Dean promises, a kindness beyond what he knows.

 

“We need that,” Castiel admits. “Very much.”

 

“We’re getting you out,” Dean repeats. As they pull apart in the dance, they’re meant to touch hands before their faces, palm upon palm, but Dean reaches farther, his hand alighting upon Castiel’s cheek. Castiel reciprocates barely in time, gaining little more than a brush of his fingers down Dean’s jaw.

 

This song ends soon after, and with linked arms and heavy sighs, they rejoin the rest of the party.

 

Dean converses with other humans while Castiel looks on. Dean talks and laughs and smiles and grins, in full possession of all the charm and social grace Castiel has never known. Though Castiel has spent much of the past few days wondering how his current situation came to pass, the question makes itself keenly felt tonight. Dean could truly have anyone he desires. Though perhaps not wielding direct power, Dean has a position of influence. When he deigns to use it, Dean has a tongue skillful in far more than kissing. He displays an unexpected level of intelligence for any creature under three mere decades of age. There is much in him to draw anyone in.

 

Dean will not lack for opportunities to move on from Castiel. He will be betrayed and furious, but he will not be alone. Even now, with his body turned toward Castiel’s, his shoulder pressing back against the edge of Castiel’s wing, Dean draws in a crowd. Once Castiel vacates this spot, both literally and metaphorically, others will clamor to take his place. Even now, and based solely on what body language Castiel has gleaned from Dean himself, Castiel can see the interest toward Dean on more than a few faces.

 

And that, Castiel tells himself firmly, is good. Dean deserves happiness, and Castiel has no legitimate claim over his affections. Even in the best of all worlds, Castiel could only have perhaps fifty years with him.

 

And yet, another piece of himself protests, fifty years would be a glut of time, compared to a paltry five days.

 

The point is moot. His people’s freedom—his own freedom—shall be luxury enough. Someday, when Dean is little more than a historical footnote in the annals of King Samuel’s reign, Castiel may believe this with his heart as well as his mind.

 

For now, he stands by Dean’s side and wastes precious minute after precious minute, listening to Dean discuss a hypothetical plan for Prince Samuel’s visions, somehow involving calendars.

 

“For every mishap my brother’s visions prevent, there’s a dozen more he can do nothing about because he doesn’t recognize the inside of every house in the country,” Dean is explaining. “That’s just not humanly possible to do, but if every building had a marker to show what town it was in, we could narrow that down.”

 

“And should these town-specific markers also be calendars, His Royal Highness would know when his visions took place,” another man in the group continues in realization. “A valid point, Your Highness, but the implementation would be quite the undertaking.”

 

“It would,” Dean readily agrees, all smooth smiles and smoother voice. “But it would be an endeavor worth funding, from manufacture to implementation. I’m sure my brother would be very interested to hear from anyone who thinks they could pull it off.” He looks to Castiel as if he hasn’t been baiting a hook for an entire new industry, purely for his brother’s benefit. “What do you think, Cas, paper or wooden tile calendars?”

 

“Wooden tile would be more durable, if initially more work,” Castiel replies, slightly unnerved that stone isn’t considered an option.

 

Discussion takes off from there, easily cutting Castiel back out of the conversation. Through the words of those gathered, Castiel pieces together that these are various heads of industry. Having just instigated an impromptu business meeting, Dean stands back, munching on a plate of miniature pastries while he listens. He pipes in with occasional pieces of input but otherwise allows the idea to take off on its own. Apparently pleased at its direction, Dean bows out of the conversation he himself began, pulling Castiel with him.

 

“Business before pleasure,” Dean remarks mournfully, one of his cheeks bulging with food in a way even Castiel knows is very rude.

 

“Was that your idea?” Castiel asks.

 

Dean shrugs, handing off his empty plate to a passing servant and snagging two fluted glasses of something amber and sparkling. As easy and thoughtless as breathing, he presses one of these into Castiel’s hands. “A kid, actually,” Dean says. “Can’t remember her name now, it was a while back. Her parents were taken by vamps and her brother blamed Sam for not having a vision to protect them. That little girl stopped crying and told him off. Said something like ‘it’s not like we have a calendar with our address on it,’ so how could Sam have known where to send his knights? Smart kid.”

 

“And you took her literally.”

 

“Hey, if there’s a better plan, someone will come up with it,” Dean says, again shrugging. “I figure it can’t hurt to tell a few people, especially if some of those people happen to own a shitload of printing presses.”

 

Liking Dean is easy. Being drawn to him is complicated in theory, but simple and irresistible in practice.

 

Admiring him is painful.

 

“What?” Dean asks.

 

Castiel stalls by drinking, which is obviously a strategy Dean already knows well. Rather than strain Dean’s patience with a second swallow, Castiel resorts to honesty. “I think it should frighten me, how fond of you I’ve become.”

 

For the second time that night, though with an entirely different inflection, Dean tells him, “Cas, you can’t just _say_ shit like that.”

 

“You asked,” Castiel reminds him.

 

Dean steers them both back toward one of the refreshment tables. It’s emptier than the rest, empty trays being taken away to be replaced by fully laden platters, and so the space offers the best pretense of privacy to be found in the room.

 

“Are you?” Dean asks, his hand warm on Castiel’s elbow. The woven ribbons over Castiel’s sleeve press between Dean’s palm and Castiel’s arm, reminding him acutely of the ribbons woven through his feathers. When he returns to their realm tonight, Castiel is going to strangle Balthazar for dressing him in a mating display. He’s already berating himself for allowing it.

 

“Am I what?” Castiel asks, his mind having wandered too far. So many lapses around this man, too many.

 

“Scared,” Dean says, his posture that of a warrior and protector. Everything from the cant of his head to the set of his shoulders indicates a willingness not just to fight, but to do battle. Thinking Castiel defenseless, Dean prepares to lay siege on his behalf.

 

Castiel tries to consider the question in the context Dean intends it. Despite his best efforts, he considers it further and longer than that.

 

Ultimately, he tilts his head to a playful angle he doesn’t feel and replies, “Is that something I’m allowed to say?”

 

“Cas,” Dean says.

 

“Your instructions were inconsistent.”

 

Though Dean leans in, he simultaneously pushes Castiel back with a hand on his shoulder. Castiel permits himself to be moved. “We can hold out until eleven,” Dean says, and Castiel recognizes the rearrangement of their positions as an aborted kiss.

 

“Maybe we should dance again,” Castiel suggests. He borrows a phrase from last night. “It might take the edge off.”

 

“I think that’s one edge that’s only gonna get sharper with use,” Dean says, exposing the peculiarities of the idiom. It makes sense in context; Castiel’s heard that blades made of metal grow blunt.

 

“Even so,” Castiel says, because true relief is still nearly two hours away. Because as much as he wants that time to pass, _it’s all he has left_ , and that is just as unbearable.

 

“You really don’t like parties, huh,” Dean says. He hooks his fingers into the woven ribbon down Castiel’s arm.

 

“I’m not skilled at socializing,” Castiel explains.

 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dean says. He frowns at the way his words run Castiel through, the tension of Castiel’s body clearly apparent to him through his touch on Castiel’s arm.

 

To no avail, he bids himself to relax. “You’ll find your abilities compensate for my own.”

 

Dean frowns deeper. His eyes narrow before widening, a display of familiar motions full of foreign meanings. He lifts his chin, and his hold on Castiel’s arm turns from stabilizing comfort to something more authoritative. “Bullshit,” Dean says. “Look, I get feeling out of place. I know I don’t look it, but I do. You can hack this. C’mon, I’ll prove it.”

 

Taking a quick scan around the room, Dean leads him to another conversing cluster. Lady Linda stands on the periphery, and it is to her they go. Spotting Castiel, her face lights up, both in expression and in actuality. The mask of her storm cloud costume features four arching tendrils of tamed lightning, crossing her dark hair like so many headbands.

 

Dean barely has time for re-introductions before Lady Linda resumes their previous discussion, such as it was. Her accent is at once thick and too round, and it takes a few moments of conversing for Castiel to realize that it isn’t truly an accent. It’s pronunciation. It’s the modern reinterpretation of what is, to humans, a dead language.

 

This time, Dean is the one who stands by without a role in the conversation, truly uncomprehending. Working off of something other than words, he nods along in all the right places until Castiel is embroiled in a debate on proper vowel emphasis. Then Dean leans in to murmur “I gotta keep making the rounds” in a tone of explanation, not apology.

 

To Lady Linda – and to anyone listening – Dean adds, “I expect him back when you’re done with him.”

 

When Dean takes his leave, he takes the air in the room with him. In Dean’s absence, Castiel ought to have a clearer head, a calmer, more objective outlook, but, if anything, the world tightens. If he feels that way with Dean and this way without him, then the obvious answer is that Castiel hasn’t had a clear head in days.

 

He forces himself to focus, a feat that only becomes more crucial as more linguists join them. Whether having overheard snatches of their conversation or having been directed their way by the absent prince, a full five other humans approach to broaden their circle. Castiel soon finds himself debating whether a partially surviving text on angels is actually, of all things, a nature guide.

 

“The word translates to wings,” the newcomer linguist insists, all of them now speaking primarily in the modern tongue for the humans’ convenience.

 

“To living angel,” Castiel corrects.

 

“It’s the same word for both,” another human of indeterminate gender chimes in, their mask scattering reflected rainbows across everyone’s costumes and faces.

 

“Because it means the same thing,” Castiel says, stating an obvious fact no one seems to realize. A dead angel is wingless, which is why ‘to be killed’ and ‘to be grounded’ are one and the same verb. At least, they are in a sensible language. The separation into two words is superfluous when a fallen warrior is, after all, a _fallen_ warrior. “The pronunciation is even the same.”

 

A human in the guise of a chimera shakes a head entirely covered by a three-part mask, the lion’s face framed by snake and goat. “We don’t know that for sure.”

 

Castiel knows that for sure. He bites down his first response and settles for, “There’s no indication of differing pronunciation in any of the surviving texts.” Or in any of the texts, at any point during the past twelve hundred years. For information before that span, Castiel would have to ask someone older for confirmation, but he’s extremely confident this was never the case during his lifetime.

 

The debate continues despite Castiel’s concrete knowledge of its absurdity. It’s a pointless issue to pursue, and even while he muzzles himself, he knows it won’t last. When his people finally return to this world, these humans will remember Castiel and perhaps realize themselves in error.

 

How many of these people will, upon reflection, discover Castiel for what he is? Surely there will be at least the rumor of where Prince Dean’s winged suitor has vanished to. Even should the vast majority of Castiel’s people immediately fly to the mountains in the south, to their long abandoned home and, perhaps, the eggs of grace that wait to awaken there, they will be noticed in their migration.

 

Yes, Castiel’s deceit will be known far and wide, but at least he’ll have the final word in this argument.

 

It’s a small consolation, a poor trade for fifty years of kissing, but it is a trade he’s already committed to.

 

Castiel feels the shift in those gathered around him before he sees the way eyes flick over his shoulder. Postures straighten further. Expressions turn from heated to polite. The woman beside Castiel looks over her shoulder and wordlessly steps to the side, into a space another man has already made for her.

 

Sure to use his mouth to do it, Castiel smiles even before he feels the first touch to his left wing. Separation has turned even the leather barrier of Dean’s gloves into a comfort. Castiel shifts, pressing into the contact in the pretense of looking over his shoulder. It pulls at the ribbon wound through his feathers, and Castiel does not care.

 

“Are we starting a book club?” Dean asks, grinning back at him, and only him. His words might be meant for the group, but his eyes are only for Castiel.

 

Too busy looking back, Castiel fails to reply, and someone else answers for him. He barely hears them. Something about the club already being well underway. Dean responds with a light air, his entire attitude the social equivalent of a sword form committed to muscle memory. There is grace and technique and memorization, and Dean wields them all without needing to stop and think.

 

Very soon, Dean steers the group to return to their original topic. While physically included, Dean hangs back verbally, taking on the role of an entertained onlooker. Almost absently, Dean adjusts the ribbon on Castiel’s wing, sliding it higher here, pulling it taut there. Though Castiel easily keeps his wings still, keeping his eyes open is a much harder feat.

 

He looks to Dean, tilting his head in question, away from the group.

 

Dean tilts his head at the same angle, but in the wrong direction. He looks surprised at Castiel’s willingness to leave.

 

Socializing with strangers on a topic he knows well but cannot fully discuss is more difficult than dancing with his wings bound. Unable to explain this as well, Castiel does the next best thing, and drops his gaze to Dean’s lips.

 

Those lips quickly quirk, softness pulling firm over teeth. Dean tilts his head the other way, mirroring Castiel, and they agree without bothering to nod.

 

They bow out of the conversation, Dean figuratively, Castiel literally. Dean promises all gathered that they can have another long chat with Castiel when he’s a Man of Letters, and Castiel pretends this is correct.

 

It occurs to Castiel, belatedly, horrifyingly, that Dean has sought to provide him with a circle of acquaintances. Potential friends, in the expectation that Castiel will move here and integrate into Dean’s life. This was no challenge or dare, but a gift.

 

He holds fast to Dean, and they exit the great hall entirely. Arms linked, steps synced, they walk. When prompted, Dean explains his plans for the evening in greater detail: advocating for his brother and knights, rewarding reasonable people with his clear approval, and a thousand other tiny things Dean implies simply by the way he mentions people where he can be overheard.

 

“You’re not much on current events, huh,” Dean says as they near the open doors to the courtyard. Even in the hall, the fresh air makes itself felt, and Castiel consciously keeps his strides from lengthening.

 

“I stopped paying attention approximately seven hundred years ago,” Castiel replies, a foolish risk made entirely for a laugh.

 

Dean merely grins, the crinkling corners of his eyes barely seen through the holes of his mask. “You’re stupidly focused, you know that, right?”

 

Though they step out through the high doors to the courtyard, Castiel doesn’t look up. To feel the air is enough, and to see Dean’s reaction is better. “I didn’t think you found that a problem.”

 

“Not when you’re focused on the right things,” Dean says.

 

“‘Fixated’ is the word my siblings use.”

 

Dean’s grin softens into a smile, and Castiel can’t decide which he prefers, to be the cause of joy or the object of tenderness. “Is that the word you’d use?”

 

“Perhaps I have a wider vocabulary,” Castiel replies. He uncouples their linked arms, shifting to hold Dean by the elbow. He merely means to look at Dean, not turn fully toward him, but their feet shuffle, and there they are. “Go on. I can entertain myself.”

 

Dean remains with him, standing beside a waist-high urn full of growing flowers. He sets his hand on the stone lip, his arm a barrier, as if Castiel is the one who might choose to leave. “You’re not in the way.”

 

“I’m too tempted to distract you,” Castiel admits.

 

“You think you can distract me?” Dean challenges.

 

Castiel steps forward. There is no air between them, only heat. He sets his hand on the lip of the urn, _almost_ atop Dean’s. Castiel lifts his chin in a dare. He closes every inch between them, save for the final one. The only part of him that touches Dean is his breath as he says, once more in the language of his youth, “ _You wish to be mine as I long to be yours._ ”

 

All the telltale signs are present. The dilation of the eyes, black eclipsing green. The wet shine of the lips, dampened by the flick of his tongue. The flare of the nostrils, inhaling Castiel’s scent alongside his words.

 

That one last inch remains between them, and Dean doesn’t close the gap. The corner of his mouth pulls to the side. Castiel tracks the movement, waiting for more. He holds position, save for the creeping motion of his hand atop the stone urn. His thumb touches leather, the human warmth of Dean’s hand hidden beneath it, and still Dean doesn’t move.

 

Castiel lifts his gaze from mouth to eyes and remembers, much too late, that he is not the only tactician here.

 

In front of a crowd entertained solely by music and gossip, Castiel has flung himself at this man in the most blatant way possible. More than that. He is currently flinging himself.

 

Dean smirks at him knowingly.

 

Castiel steps back, and Dean’s free hand shoots out to hold him at the waist. He draws Castiel close, somehow closer than before, and Castiel allows his body to be led. Dean’s other hand covers Castiel’s on the stone, holding him between sleek warmth and rough chill. His face down-turned, Dean brings his lips to Castiel’s ear.

 

“They’ll know better than to ask you to dance, now,” he explains in a voice rougher than the stonework, as if this was for Castiel’s benefit.

 

“And if I wanted to dance?” Castiel bluffs.

 

“Then I’d be surprised,” Dean answers plainly. “And I’d make it up to you later.”

 

“You’ll make it up to me later anyway,” Castiel tells him, ordering a prince.

 

Dean pulls back to smile at him, as slow and lingering as the circles his thumb traces into Castiel’s side. “And you’ll let me.”

 

They stare at each other too long.

 

At the same time, Dean starts to say “I gotta” and Castiel begins to say “You should.”

 

They stop. They don’t quite smile.

 

Dean squeezes Castiel’s hip and Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand.

 

They part, staring all the while.

 

Dean nods toward where he plans to go. Castiel nods in acceptance, or perhaps permission. Beyond this, neither of them move. Not even the music taking a turn toward liveliness stirs them.

 

Very deliberately, Castiel closes his eyes. He opens them, the two motions distinct and too slow to be called a blink. With that, Dean is released.

 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Dean orders.

 

“I had planned to fly away,” Castiel deadpans.

 

“Smartass,” Dean calls him, a restrained kiss held in all the lines of his body. Though already no longer touching, they relinquish each other.

 

Castiel keeps to the walls of the courtyard, the stone path encircling patches of flowers and sculpted shrubbery. On the far side of the courtyard from the doors, musicians play on, and before them, filling the circle framed by those spots of plant life, dancers whirl and spin together. Castiel is not alone in keeping to the periphery, and he avoids any clusters of humans who look at him as he passes.

 

He finds a good spot, out of the way without being blatantly hiding. A castle tower rises at each corner of the courtyard, one a bell tower turned clock tower, an alarm system long ago converted into a simple means of telling the time. He keeps his face upturned toward it, using the excuse of squinting at a distant clock face as he instead watches the sky.

 

Far above the lights of the party, the clouds linger, dark and damp. They move slowly, airborne shadows shifting beneath moon and stars. With no small amount of excitement, he realizes it might rain later. That’s what this smell is, this taste.

 

He’d forgotten it.

 

His wings fight to flex beneath their trappings of ribbon. His feet want to shift, his knees to bend, his shoulders to brace. The empty sky beckons, but Castiel will not fly.

 

Instead, he closes his eyes and drops his face. Looking for Dean serves as a distraction, but only for his mind. He may know the tension of his body better than the clench of his heart, but he does know he can’t fight longing with longing. No, he needs something else.

 

The reassurance resides inside his borrowed belt pouch, in Hannah’s. Instead of his battered invitation, he withdraws the second note page from last night, the one he couldn’t give to Raphael without exposing himself. He focuses on it now, rereading the incantation slowly. Spellwork has a different structure from ordinary speech – it must, to prevent mere conversation from casting enchantments – and he doesn’t know it as well as he now wishes he did.

 

There is comfort in reading the words. He may not have the tablet in his hands yet, nor all the power stored within, the combined efforts of their greatest, and now deceased, enchanters. But he will. They will. Soon.

 

He looks up at the sky again, and knows that in less than a fortnight, he shall fly.

 

It’s a thought he holds dear, a thought he wields against the sickening worries of how Dean will react. His mind seems a mess of fears. He fights to dispel the ones he can.

 

The strange behavior of the demons in regards to the tablet, for example. If they could, they would have unsealed themselves with it. Therefore, they couldn’t. No matter how Uriel reassured him, something rang false in his brother’s explanations, and the more Castiel reads and rereads the incantation, the more the reason why becomes clear.

 

The incantation is specific, as any effective incantation must be. Ambiguity leads to unintended results, and there is no ambiguity here. The tablet should only be able to unlock the angels’ realm, not that of the demons. Castiel recalls enough of the first side of the tablet to be certain. This cannot be altered, either. Once set into the stone and imbued with power, the spell cannot be changed.

 

And yet, Uriel was certain the demons could use the tablet. He’d been the youngest member on the team that had crafted it, was now the only surviving member, and would surely remember the spell, even centuries later. Castiel must be missing something. Perhaps it’s a matter of double-meaning, the same way that human was convinced that a text about angels could apply to birds.

 

He renews the effort, searching for any mention of _twisted_ or _turned_ or _corrupted_ , for anything that could be a name for a demon. A demon is, after all, a human twisted beyond the scope of their life force’s natural form. Lucifer’s immense power as an archangel allowed his healing abilities to stretch past the limits of nature, allowed him to _create_ where a lesser angel would be constrained to mere mending.

 

With this in mind, Castiel seeks.

 

He finds nothing but confusion.

 

The tablet isn’t the key to freeing Lucifer and his greater demons. No, that isn’t quite right. Had the demons remaining in this world managed to banish the tablet into the demon’s realm, they might have been able to use it to free Lucifer, and only Lucifer. The spell refers to plural angels, but the word is indeed the same for wings, meaning that even a single angel is referred to as a plural, having two wings.

 

Except, Castiel realizes, this is also wrong. Wingless, Lucifer no longer fits the word.

 

This tablet can’t be used to free Lucifer either.

 

Castiel fights his wings smooth, frowning internally.

 

If the tablet is useless to the demons and Lucifer, what of Seer Shurley’s prophecy? If the key to freeing both angels and demons is, in fact, two different keys, then what else is in this castle? What key is there that the demons know and Castiel does not? If the key isn’t locked away as the tablet was, if the demons’ key leaves the warded castle, one half of their problem remains.

 

When Castiel squints up at the clock tower, it is very nearly eleven. He doesn’t have the time to find out. Is it, somehow, Michael’s sword? The idea makes no sense, and yet the warding on the boxes continues to bother Castiel. Was it simply because the demons were aware of Uriel’s spying and feared him as a thief? But if they knew Uriel was a threat, why not wield the sword against him?

 

“What are you—are you serious?”

 

Castiel looks up from the paper, blinking at Dean. The magelight set into the wall behind Castiel makes the silver horns shine with a golden glow. “What?” Castiel asks.

 

Shaking his head, Dean gestures for Castiel to put his notes away. “Are you ever not in research mode?”

 

“I won’t be at eleven,” Castiel replies, nevertheless folding the page and returning it to his belt pouch.

 

“Yeah, screw that,” Dean says, and he holds out his hand.

 

Castiel very nearly hands him the paper. He catches himself in time, but not too late for Dean to see and smirk. At least they’ve less of an audience this time, many of the party-goers heading into the castle proper. In the time Castiel was reading and thinking, the majority had left. The musicians have even stopped playing, somehow without Castiel noticing.

 

His hand raised above Dean’s, Castiel pauses. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go in?” he makes himself ask.

 

“Sam told me I’d be out here,” Dean says. “Can’t make my brother a liar on his birthday, now can I?”

 

Castiel takes Dean’s hand, and as Dean guides him to the center circle of the courtyard, the clock tower begins to toll. Besides Dean, only the musicians and a few servants remain. Every other human in the courtyard hastens inside at the long peals.

 

At the eleventh, Dean assumes a dancing position Castiel knows well, his frame sturdy, his eyes on Castiel. Without looking away, Dean gestures to the ten person orchestra, and they begin to play.

 

As close to alone as they’ve been all night, they dance. With no one else to avoid bumping into, they look at each other, and only at each other. Though Castiel has learned a preference for the faster songs, the better to spin and whirl and hold tight, Dean has arranged with the musicians for something slower, something lingering. Although their steps are always deliberate in their dancing, now they turn distinct. Despite their lightness, each has weight. They move in unison, each step landing at the same moment, a steady rhythm of now, now, now, together, together.

 

Dean makes the most of their space, a larger area than the library offered throughout Dean’s lessons. And tonight is another lesson, to be certain. Though the footwork remains the same, their closeness varies. Their holds change, hands upon hands and hands upon torsos. Then, with playful smiles, forearm upon forearm as Dean softly introduces more and more motions better known in unarmed combat.

 

Seeking to better hold Dean, Castiel moves past this whimsy. He pushes closer and Dean readily understands. With less than an hour left to them tonight, Dean doesn’t tease. He pulls Castiel close, and when he spins Castiel, it isn’t to spin him away but to turn him. A hand beneath each of Castiel’s wrists, their arms outstretched to the sides, Dean plays at being Castiel’s wings. His breath ruffles Castiel’s hair as the wind itself might.

 

“You really think it’ll take six months?” Dean asks, the longing restrained in his voice but rampant in his hands.

 

Exposed, held open for anyone to see, Castiel closes his eyes. With Dean at his back and his arms spread, Castiel is on display. No, more than that: he is being shown off. They should have danced sooner, when the full crowd was still here.

 

“Cas,” Dean prompts, hooking his chin over Castiel’s right wing.

 

“I can try for faster,” Castiel says. The visiting schedule is nothing more than an excuse to keep Dean away from the university, but pretending is a comfort.

 

“I’m willing to wait,” Dean promises.

 

“Dean,” Castiel begins to say, but Dean turns him back before the protest can fully form. He catches Castiel entirely off-guard with a hand against his cheek.

 

“Do you want me to wait?” Dean asks.

 

“I think–”

 

“But what do you _want_?” Dean interrupts.

 

“To have kissed you hours ago,” Castiel replies, baiting Dean toward silence, to the quiet of soft, wet sounds.

 

Dean’s hand leaves his cheek for his neck, his neck for his shoulder. “Do you want to be with me, Cas? Screw ‘should’ and all that bullshit. Do you want us to be together?”

 

“Socially, romantically, or carnally?” Castiel asks.

 

“Yes,” answers Dean.

 

“Yes,” answers Castiel.

 

Dean grins at him wide and warm, and he shares the joy in his teeth and lips even as he keeps them to himself.

 

No matter how Castiel moves or seeks to move them, Dean turns each push into a turn, each press forward into a retreat. It’s a strange sort of sparring in a style Dean knows far better.

 

“I wanted to ask you something last night,” Dean says. “Didn’t seem like the time, though.”

 

Castiel tilts his head.

 

“When you were talking about the world changing,” Dean says, “you mentioned someone named Michael.”

 

Involuntarily, Castiel drops his gaze to the sword on Dean’s hip. Down the small gap between their bodies, the hilt keeps brushing against Hannah’s pouch. “You’ve no cause for jealousy, if that’s your question.”

 

“Not what I was going for, but good to know,” Dean says.

 

Castiel waits, looking back up at Dean.

 

“You hadn’t mentioned anyone besides your siblings before,” Dean continues once he sees Castiel won’t.

 

“No, I told you about Michael,” Castiel replies, certain of it.

 

Dean frowns. “Was he… the soldier who trained you?”

 

Castiel nods. “He wasn’t family, but he wanted us.”

 

“Was he going to adopt you?”

 

“In a way, he already had,” Castiel explains. Tries to explain, but can’t. They were Michael’s soldiers, and Michael trained many of his troops personally. That he had also put down Anna himself after Lucifer had twisted her was a tearing pang of responsibility. In his own distant, coldly righteous way, Michael had cared for them.

 

“Was he the one who named you?” Dean asks. “Noticing a bit of an angel theme going on.”

 

“He didn’t name us, no,” Castiel replies. “But.” He smiles at Dean to make it a joke, but the motion cannot hold, not even weakened as it is upon his face. He remembers the char of Michael’s wings too well, the havoc Lucifer had wrought upon him. Pain turns his words wistful. “He was my archangel. I was his seraph.”

 

Dean shifts his hand upon Castiel’s hip as he admits, “When I was a kid, my mom used to call me her little angel, too. Nowhere near that specific, though.” The words are an offering, and one well-received.

 

“Really?” Castiel asks, holding back what Dean might consider disproportionate amusement.

 

“C’mon, it’s not that funny,” Dean complains, as if he hadn’t been trying to buoy Castiel’s mood.

 

“I apologize,” Castiel says, unrepentant. “What else did Her Majesty call you?”

 

“How about,” Dean suggests, “we don’t talk about my mom right now?”

 

“I’m curious what it’s like to have parents,” Castiel explains, and Dean’s expression shifts. He holds Castiel closer and the length of their steps shortens.

 

“Not sure I’m the best person to ask,” Dean says quietly, mouth again by Castiel’s ear. One of his hands leaves Castiel’s waist to gesture off to the side, and the music transitions soon after, slowing even further. Before, there was lingering. Now, there is wistful longing.

 

Dean returns his hand to Castiel’s hip and guides Castiel to where he wants him. Their feet barely move. The hilt of Michael’s sword knocks against Castiel’s side. They hold their clasped hands between their chests, cradling that touch, and Castiel’s other arm soon slides around Dean’s shoulders entirely. Castiel’s mask shifts against his face as Dean presses his cheek against Castiel’s.

 

“Even before Dad was king, he was king, y’know?” Dean murmurs, close enough that no one could overhear them. “Mom’s more of a mom. Grandparents, though, that’s where it’s at. Grammy Millie was something else.”

 

“Queen Mildred?” Castiel checks.

 

“To everybody who wasn’t me, Sam, or Grandpa Henry,” Dean says. “You gotta pick people to be yourself with, and she picked us.”

 

“She sounds wonderful,” Castiel says.

 

Dean laughs low against his ear. “She was fucking terrifying, Cas,” he says, and this seems to be praise. “She’d have liked you, though. Grandpa Henry was a Man of Letters, too.” He speaks as if Castiel has already taken the position, as if it is inevitable instead of impossible. “She was big on that. Grabbing the support she needed and holding on.” To emphasize, Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand between their chests. “I’ve tried to learn from that.”

 

“You’ve done well,” Castiel says. “Even having only met Dame Joanna and Sir Robert briefly, that much is clear.”

 

Dean shakes his head, the slow drag of this evening’s stubble a pleasing contrast to the smooth face of his mask. “Don’t have my full team yet. Soon, though.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes and says nothing.

 

“I want that,” Dean continues. “What they had. What Sam’s getting with Jess.”

 

If Castiel pulls back, he will have to face Dean, and so he presses closer.

 

Dean slides his hand free of Castiel’s, only to cup the back of Castiel’s head.

 

They are no longer dancing. They are embracing with the pretense of music.

 

“Do you want that, Cas?” Dean asks, warm and solid and so very fleeting.

 

His mask thoroughly in the way, Castiel nods against Dean’s neck. Dean’s fingers card through his hair, Dean’s other hand hot and steady on Castiel’s hip.

 

“I want you with me,” Dean continues. “I can wait a few measly months for that.” His hand lifts from Castiel’s hair to pull at the band of the feathered mask. He guides Castiel to lift his face, and to let Dean remove the mask entirely.

 

Castiel looks up to the clock tower rather than meet Dean’s eyes, and too much time has passed. “It’s almost eleven thirty,” Castiel says with something very much like despair. He lifts his arm around Dean’s shoulders to better remove Dean’s mask as well, a cumbersome creation of metal and cloth and leather.

 

His face bare, Dean looks down into his eyes. Castiel strains up for a kiss that doesn’t come.

 

“I gotta tell you something first,” Dean says, his forehead against Castiel’s, his mouth withheld much too far away.

 

“Dean, we don’t have time.”

 

“Yeah, we do,” Dean tells him with conviction. He pulls back and runs his empty hand down Castiel’s arm. He retrieves his mask before moving away to discard both Castiel’s mask and his own on a stone urn, slipping them in between the flowers. He doesn’t need to return, as Castiel follows on his heels.

 

“Dean,” Castiel tries to argue.

 

“Hear me out,” Dean interrupts.

 

“We have ten minutes.”

 

“Then stay the night,” Dean tells him, very nearly a command. Holding Castiel’s upper arms, he loops his thumbs through the ribbons woven down his sleeves.

 

“I _can’t_.”

 

“Then hear me out.”

 

Fighting down every instinct, Castiel nods. Without his awareness, let alone his consent, his hands have found their way to Dean’s hips and seized him there. There is something wrong here, something more than a job left unfinished.

 

“You’re afraid I’m going to change my mind,” Dean begins, renewing their argument from last night. “That you’re going to leave and something will happen, and then I won’t want you anymore.” He keeps his voice low and lifts one of his hands higher, the better to cup Castiel’s face.

 

Castiel closes his eyes against the sight, against the words and the kindness. “Please just kiss me,” he asks, begging for one final piece of selfishness.

 

“I can’t until you listen,” Dean says. He strokes his thumb beneath Castiel’s eye until Castiel looks at him. “Because I’m serious about you. Have been since before the first time you asked me if I was, up in the observatory.” Dean nods up toward one of the towers, and Castiel follows his gaze for the excuse to look away. It’s the tower to the right of the clock tower, which now proudly displays the time as eleven thirty-two.

 

“I believe you,” Castiel says, rushing Dean toward reassurances. “I do trust you, Dean.”

 

“You believe me for now,” Dean corrects. “You mistrust the world, I get it, but I don’t want you leaving while you only believe me for now.”

 

“There are misgivings that only change over time,” Castiel counters. “I appreciate the effort, but you can’t accomplish it in one night, and not in ten minutes.”

 

“Maybe I can,” Dean says, “because I started this morning.”

 

Ribbons shifting through his feathers, Castiel frowns with his face.

 

“Sam’s doing his thing right now,” Dean continues. “His Last Unwed Kiss, for that doctor we danced with two nights ago. When he kisses Jess at midnight, that kicks off their engagement, but there are other ways to go about it too. Some people give away their last kiss to make a longer promise. Not to be married, but to be together. You get that a lot on the coast, before their partner goes out to sea. Or off to university.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel says, but he cannot stop him.

 

“I’ve been jealous of Sam for so long,” Dean says, “but I’ve always known that I do get one thing he doesn’t. The Mage Prince has to have a noble mage for a spouse, but me? All I need is someone who wants me back.”

 

What Dean is about to say looms ahead of his actual words. It towers over them as the seconds slip past.

 

“That’s what this comes down to, Cas,” Dean says. “Not who your family is, not where you’re from, not who would be a ‘more appropriate’ match for me. Do you want me back? That’s all there is to it.”

 

“What are you saying?” Castiel asks, knowing full well what Dean is saying. He jerks back from Dean’s touch upon his face, but holds still as Dean pursues, returning that hand to Castiel’s shoulder.

 

He needs more time, he needs more _time_ , he cannot think and he needs to escape. Seven minutes and a swift walk will bring him to the portal, but Dean will want to follow. Dean must plan to walk him back to his accommodations tonight, Dean must think he can keep Castiel late and use his royal authority to command open an inn’s locked door, but that won’t happen, that _can’t_ happen.

 

“I’m saying I did mine first,” Dean tells him, voice low and calm. He leans in now, wrapping around Castiel without a blanket of wings, with the mere force of his presence. “That’s why Sam doesn’t mind me staying out here while he kisses Nick Lightbringer. He saw me give mine to–”

 

“What did you say?” Castiel interrupts, at last with enough force to make Dean pause.

 

“I gave Jo my Last Unwed Kiss,” Dean says, hands tight on Castiel’s shoulders.

 

“No, the other part,” Castiel says, already pulling back.

 

Dean stares at him, grip loosening even as he follows Castiel into his retreat. “What?”

 

“The healer, Dean, why is he called ‘Lightbringer’?” Castiel demands.

 

“Are you fucking serious,” Dean says. “I’m fucking _proposing_ here, and you–”

 

“ _Yes_.” Castiel wants to shake him. Castiel wants to shake himself. “Why is he called that?”

 

Dean releases him, turning away and throwing his hands up in the air. Beyond him, the music cuts out in jerking bursts of silence as the musicians spot his ire. “What the _fuck_ , Cas?”

 

Castiel stalks after him, forces Dean to turn back to him with a hand on his shoulder, and demands, “When he heals, does light shine out of the wound?”

 

“How is that important right now?” Dean yells at him, heedless of servants and musicians. He throws out an arm, for some reason pointing up to the observatory tower. “This is not how this goes!”

 

“Does light shine out?” Castiel demands, charging forward into Dean’s space.

 

“Yeah, fine, it does!” Dean shouts. “He’s a fancypants touch healer with everybody jizzing themselves over him, and he makes wounds fucking glow. You happy?”

 

“No,” Castiel says, and he touches Dean one final time, a sorrowful squeeze of the shoulder. It’s all he has time for. It’s more than he has time for. “No. I’m sorry, Dean.”

 

He seizes Michael’s sword, pulls it free, and _runs_.

 

There is a split second, just one, before Dean gives chase. Dean shouts, now more in confusion than anger, but still full of both. His footsteps pound the stone floor.

 

If Castiel is wrong, he has ruined everything.

 

If Castiel is right, everything is already ruined.

 

He runs faster than any angel with bound wings has a right to. Guards move to block him, each abandoning posts at doors and stairways, and Castiel barrels through them. Behind him, closer than a human ought to be able to manage, Dean shouts, “Don’t hurt him!” Castiel keeps the blade angled down in a backhanded grip, attacking none but refusing to be slowed.

 

He turns the final corner in the path to the throne room, and the rug covering the stone floor slides beneath his feet. For the first time in this world, the first time in centuries, Castiel balances properly, one wing ripping out through its bindings as a counter-weight.

 

He rights himself and keeps running, his wings finally conducive to movement. Behind him, he hears the smack of hands slapping a wall, hears startled shouting, and he doesn’t look back. This part of the hall is taller, the barrier of chandeliers removed to a greater height.

 

Ahead of him, through the open doorway to the throne room, screams ring out. The guards framing the door run inside instead of at Castiel, but a flood of costumed humanity streams out in their place.

 

Too late, already too late, Castiel casts himself into the air. Hard flaps bring him over human heads, barely. Below him, more screams. Behind him, more shouts.

 

Ahead of him, Lucifer.

 

White wings erupted from his back, Lucifer stands tall and proud amid the magical fires of a mage battle. He cradles the limp body of Prince Samuel against himself, one wing looped forward protectively against King John’s flames. They fight upon the dais, King John positioned between the thrones, Queen Mary taking shelter behind him.

 

The king wields his fire with tight control, spears of blue flame stabbing Lucifer’s other side, never coming close to the younger prince. Lucifer bats each away with his free hand, a bored conductor displeased with his orchestra. All the while, guards fight to rush in while guests rush out, only some of their costumed number remaining to fling spells at Lucifer.

 

More than one mage looks up, sees Castiel, and fires on him as well.

 

Castiel dives before he’s ready, his aerial assault ruined before it can occur. Not enough height inside human buildings, not enough windows save for the one behind the dais. The stained glass window will be Lucifer’s exit, and only King John separates him from it.

 

Castiel lands hard, legs kicked forward, wings flared back. Twenty feet away, with Prince Samuel drooping against his side, Lucifer looks Castiel full in the face. He holds out one hand and restrains each of King John’s spells without looking. A barrage of spells – flame, ice, water, lightning, more – strike at both angels, and they both block them with ease, their wings serving as shields.

 

“Run!” Castiel bellows to the humans. “Leave him to me! _Run!_ ”

 

“What a peculiar arrogance you have,” Lucifer remarks, still holding off the king with one hand. He tilts his head in regret, in boredom, and he pushes out a blast of grace.

 

Even braced for it, Castiel ought to have been thrown into the far wall, but the blast is weak, and Castiel remains standing. The humans do not, flung back hard, save for two.

 

Each hand tight on a throne, Queen Mary holds her husband upright, her arms beneath his, her chest to his back. Paused for only that single moment, King John renews his assault. Each blast halts before Lucifer’s gloved palm, and none of the flame dissipates. Seeing what is about to happen, Castiel charges forward, but, again, he is too late.

 

The inferno erupts first.

 

With each assault, with every fireball, Lucifer wrested control of the magic flames from the weaker human mage. He gathered them. He made them his. And in one blast, he turns them on their maker.

 

Behind Castiel, Dean screams. For his parents. For his brother. Endlessly, for his brother.

 

With the king removed, Lucifer halts Castiel’s charge with another blast of grace. Again, it is enough force to check him, but far from enough to do Castiel injury. The scent and sight of charred flesh is a stronger attack on his senses. Screams fade into labored breath, the agony of a body not killed outright.

 

Eyes coolly flitting past Castiel, Lucifer shifts the direction of his gloved hand. Castiel hears the rapid, running footsteps, and he snaps his wing out to the side. The concentrated blast catches him low, in the flight feathers instead of the meat of his wing. Muscles strain; the remaining ribbons are flayed to tatters. He spins with the impact in one fast, complete turn that he takes control of. Mid-turn, he catches one fleeting glimpse of Dean’s face, full of rage and surprise and unshed tears. In the human’s hand, there is a knife, a single knife against an archangel, and Castiel has never loved him more.

 

He lands in a fighting stance facing Lucifer. Without delay, he shifts to the side, sweeping one wing back to herd Dean behind him.

 

Head lightly tilted, his facial expression jarringly human, Lucifer observes this with a deceptively casual interest. Wings held back, he no longer protects Prince Samuel, instead using the man as a shield. Rather than hold Prince Samuel against himself, he allows the prince to droop over the bar of his arm in what must be an awkward hold. Prince Samuel’s bare face is pale, and his arms hang as limply as his hair.

 

Castiel takes it in: the set of Lucifer’s wings, the overall posture, the caution not to touch Prince Samuel directly.

 

He makes a plan, and the hardest part will be getting Prince Samuel back alive.

 

With his free hand, Lucifer snaps his fingers and points to Castiel. Were Lucifer his deceased brother Gabriel, something awful would have happened to Castiel, but Gabriel’s method of magic was distinct. No, that gesture was merely conversational.

 

“Now I recognize you,” Lucifer remarks, as calm and collected as if they were once again upon the dance floor together. “You were one of Michael’s. It was hard to tell without seeing your colors.”

 

At the mention of the undersides of his wings, Castiel flares his wings higher, flight feathers splayed. He shields Dean even while announcing his intention to fight. “Let him go.”

 

Lucifer responds to neither Castiel’s words nor his threat display. Is it control that keeps his wings steady behind him, or something else? With a quiet voice and a faint smile, Lucifer asks, “Tell me, how is my brother?”

 

“The brother you didn’t kill?” Castiel needles, and there it is, the arch of Lucifer’s wings. Lucifer shifts his grip on Prince Samuel, a balancing motion that ought to be unnecessary.

 

“Send Raphael my regards,” Lucifer continues, still playing at composure. “I’ll let you leave with that message. I’m sure he’ll want to hear how well I’m doing.”

 

Castiel pulls his wings close, a shielding position. He raises the wrists of his wings high, his flight feathers ready to whip around to the front of his body. Readying for battle, he shifts Michael’s sword from a backhanded grip.

 

From behind, a hand presses against his spine, between the base of each wing. That hand fists in fabric.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel says for Dean’s benefit. “And neither are you.”

 

“It’s almost midnight,” Lucifer cautions, speaking as if concerned for Castiel’s sake.

 

A tremor goes through Castiel’s body. He keeps it from his wings, but it must travel up Dean’s arm.

 

“Cas?” Dean rasps behind him, voice raw from shouts and screams.

 

“That shouldn’t mean anything to you,” Castiel says to Lucifer, filled with one inevitable, horrific conclusion. “You turned Uriel.”

 

Lucifer’s manner is almost kind, almost compassionate. When he speaks, it’s close enough to an apology to be mocking.

 

“I didn’t need to.”

 

Halting Castiel’s immediate urge for forward motion, Dean tightens his grip on the back of Castiel’s shirt. “Don’t let him bait you.”

 

Castiel touches Dean’s flank with his flight feathers, a wordless agreement.

 

“Now, now, I don’t want a fight,” Lucifer chides. “I want a _messenger_. I suppose I could stick a note on your corpse and toss that through, but it’s not really the same, is it?”

 

“I don’t serve you,” Castiel replies, blade ready in his hand.

 

Lucifer smiles in a pinched human way Castiel can’t read. “You might want to consider it. Just a thought.”

 

“Put him down,” Castiel orders. He presses his flight feathers low against Dean’s shins, urging Dean to stay put.

 

“Or what?” Lucifer gathers Prince Samuel closer, still taking care with his gloved hands and long sleeves to not touch him skin-to-skin. “You’ll die on my blade? Come now, Castiel, you must know better than that. What will a seraph’s knife do against an archangel’s sword?”

 

Castiel steps forward into a firmer fighting stance. He arches his wings high in the most pronounced threat display of his life, and still Lucifer barely responds when it should be reflexive. Castiel bares his teeth. “This isn’t mine.”

 

Lucifer’s wings snap high, towering with rage. His eyes narrow, locked on the blade kept not as a demon’s trophy but as a brother’s memento. He adjusts Prince Samuel yet again, going so far as to need to step to keep his balance.

 

Castiel has him.

 

Castiel _has him_.

 

He lunges forward, propelling himself with the push of his legs and a hard flap of his wings. Lucifer’s reaction is tellingly slow, an ungainly retreat of foreign limbs. He takes to the air unscathed, but it wasn’t a blow Castiel had intended to land. With another blast of grace, Lucifer blows out the stained glass window behind the thrones. He lumbers through, flailing into flight.

 

The moment Lucifer flies out the broken window, Prince Samuel a drooping, dead weight in his arms, Dean dives between the thrones. His knife clatters to the charred dais. “Dad!” he shouts, shaking one charred body and the other. “Mom!”

 

One of the bodies makes a noise.

 

Wings spread for flight, Castiel snaps them in. There’s no time, but he stops all the same.

 

Michael’s sword tucked into his belt, he darts around the thrones. With the broken window at his back, he drops down to kneel at the heads of the burned king and queen. The metal of their crowns has run and still pings, cooling, continuing to burn already seared flesh. Castiel begins there, restoring the crown as easily as he restores his own clothing. He pulls it free so it may do no more harm.

 

From feet away, from far away, he hears Dean yell at him. He hears Dean curse him, rage against him, and Castiel is distantly glad to have prepared himself for this moment. The rest of his focus goes to his hands, framing the king’s face. He feels around for the faint flutter of life force and, finding it, _shoves_ his grace inside. The spark grudgingly grows. Hard, fast, Castiel stretches it to the point of risking further tearing. He pulls it taut across the scaffolding of the king’s body, and he pulls it tighter still.

 

King John gasps. Castiel’s light shines from only the worst of his burns, too much of his grace tied up in the internal damage.

 

Dean’s cursing stops immediately. He clutches his father’s burnt hands as Castiel moves on to his mother, her wounds at once extensive and far less severe.

 

“Answer me,” he hears Dean command, and so Castiel looks up. He heals by touch, not by sight, but even so, keeping his concentration is nigh impossible.

 

Kneeling over his father, Dean might as well be towering in his fury. He is rage and betrayal. He is anguish, controlled and unbroken, and Castiel will never kiss him again.

 

“Are you the Seraph Castiel?” Dean demands.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Was that Lucifer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Each word bites at the heels of the one before. “Is he gonna make Sam into an archdemon?”

 

“No,” Castiel says, denial without comfort. Beneath his hands, Queen Mary begins to breathe steadily. “He’ll keep him alive to drain him. Your brother will be human until Lucifer is fully healed.”

 

“You get him back,” Dean commands. “If you ever said one true word, you bring him back to me.”

 

Behind Dean, a short woman comes running, well in advance of the few guards still able to stand. Her hair is a pale gold, and if she isn’t Lady Jessica, Castiel can’t be faulted for mistaking one human for another now.

 

“Can you heal them the rest of the way?” Castiel asks her, speaking past Dean, unable to answer Dean.

 

“Get him back,” she begs, already dropping to her knees beside Dean. “ _Please_ ,” she adds, but not to Castiel: to Dean.

 

Dean looks to her, and that’s the opening Castiel needs to say what must be said.

 

“The portal is in the hedge maze. It opens at seven and midnight. Send my body through.”

 

Dean’s eyes snap back to him, but Castiel is already on his feet, his wings already spread wide. This is the last Castiel will ever see of Dean: shocked and vengeful, powerful even unarmed and on his knees.

 

Castiel turns away and, for the first time in over six hundred years, he takes to the sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see what else I'm up to or get (potentially) faster responses to questions and comments, follow me on [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, everybody, and next week: the chapter I wrote the fic for.


	10. Midnight

The throne room falls away behind him, beneath him. The stars slip between shielding clouds and the moon deliberates whether to hide. The wind whips all other sounds from Castiel’s ears, but not the half-heard echoes of shouts from his mind.    
  
He climbs.    
  
Wings straining, he climbs. Higher, higher, pushing to see in every direction at once. A minute’s head start would be too much for an unencumbered angel, but Castiel knows better. Archangel or not, flight is not about strength, but physics, and Prince Samuel is an awkward burden to drag through the air.    
  
Gaining altitude by the second, Castiel banks on Lucifer doing the same and scans the skies above as well as beyond.    
  
There.    
  
There.    
  
Lucifer sees him coming, striking out even higher. In aerial combat, height and speed are the true weapons. Lucifer rises in an ungainly, wobbling line, and Castiel fights to pass him in altitude before drawing within reach. They race ever skyward, Lucifer’s arms clenched around Prince Samuel, Castiel with Michael’s sword in hand. Preemptively, Castiel rips open his own sleeves, prepared to summon his own blade as a feint if necessary. A seraph’s blade may give but a glancing blow to an archangel, but distraction is key.    
  
Castiel has speed. He has balance. He must wield them as skillfully as any sword.    
  
White wings beat the sky, pearl undersides glinting in the moonlight. Longing for warm, daytime thermals to lift him higher still, Castiel cuts his own path through the air.    
  
Higher.    
  
Higher.    
  
Higher still, they rise.    
  
Lucifer makes for a cloud bank and Castiel cuts him off. They wheel past each other, ripping the wind, and at last, Castiel pushes above. From this vantage, he can see the way Lucifer’s shirt and jacket bunch high across his shoulders, his spine bare and exposed between his wings.    
  
Blade at the ready, he descends upon his foe, and Lucifer dives. He drops like the dead weight he carries. Knowing the ploy too well, Castiel dives after him at only half-speed, and when Lucifer swoops back up, Castiel remains above him.    
  
They drop and dive again and again, each time a gamble between a true descent and a feint. If Castiel wanted to slice Lucifer across the back, the unending ploys would be excruciating, but Castiel knows better than to attempt a killing blow, not while Lucifer can still revive himself with the dying man in his arms.    
  
Down, Castiel forces him. Castiel herds him and harries him, pushing down from above where Lucifer has to twist and strain to see him. The need to keep his foe in sight turns Lucifer’s already stiff wing strokes into the clumsy fumbling of a fledgling. Swooping from one side to another, Castiel presses this advantage, driving Lucifer back toward the castle.    
  
Once above the massive structure, Castiel is hard-pressed to keep Lucifer there. He circles tighter, and though they are not yet low enough, he has no choice.    
  
Castiel drops.    
  
He plummets in a controlled fall, directly atop his quarry. Lucifer rolls hard to the right, pulling up from a dive, and Castiel mirrors him, twisting so they rise face to face, close enough to touch. Even with the larger turn, Castiel rises faster, and he snaps out his wings to match pace. In the split second before Castiel strikes, Lucifer’s eyes widen, illuminated only by stars and moon.    
  
The second after, a new light shines silver from Lucifer’s upper arm.     
  
Castiel slashes again and again, matching Lucifer from one maneuver and into the next. They bank and roll but mostly dive, and at last, Castiel cuts him too deep.    
  
Released, Prince Samuel falls.    
  
Castiel dives anew, still faster than even an unencumbered Lucifer. His arms close around the prince’s torso, pinning one limp arm to his side, and a faint surge of power flashes through him when the back of the prince’s head strikes him in the chin.    
  
He strains away as hard as he can without letting go. Any more direct contact will kill Prince Samuel, of that Castiel is sure. He dives with Prince Samuel held beneath him, one bare hand tight on the prince’s jacket, Michael’s sword carefully angled away in the other.    
  
Close behind him, Lucifer descends, their airborne battle reversed.    
  
This time, the dive is no feint. Castiel plummets toward the closest tower, the only one that glints in the moonlight. At the last instant, he doesn’t pull up but instead turns over, striking the glass ceiling of the observatory tower with his body, his wings spread wide to absorb the impact and slow his fall.    
  
He crashes to the tower floor all the same, a fleshy crack joining the shattering of glass and snap of metal. Prince Samuel lands atop him, still held against Castiel’s chest, and for the first time tonight, Castiel hears him make a sound. It is low and pained and incoherent, but it is a sound. The prince is alive.    
  
Tucking his wing close to his side, Castiel rolls Prince Samuel off him. In the moment Prince Samuel passes over his wing, another pulse of energy shoots through Castiel, this one even weaker than the first. Two nights ago, the merest touch of the prince’s hand was enough to energize Castiel for hours; tonight, there is next to nothing.    
  
One-handed, Castiel pushes harder on Prince Samuel’s jacket, shoving the human up against the lower stone portion of the wall as Lucifer circles above them. Castiel brandishes Michael’s blade as he takes up a defensive posture above the prince, his feet planted on either side of Prince Samuel’s. One of the prince’s legs is twisted the wrong way beneath the knee, but to heal him would be to touch him, and to touch him would surely kill him now.    
  
Dragging Prince Samuel to the nearest wall rapidly proves to be a mistake. Lucifer lands before him, his own blade at the ready. His wings strike down the remaining glass and the twisted wreckage of the metal frame that once held it. Shards crunch beneath Lucifer’s feet, but Castiel is without the luxury of maneuvering.    
  
The door down into the tower is on Lucifer’s right, Castiel’s left, and it opens toward Lucifer, not Castiel. To force Prince Samuel down through it, Castiel would need to drag the prince’s body past Lucifer clockwise before pushing him back through the other way. Even if he managed that much, there’s no time to carve angel warding into the door, no matter how well it will work on Lucifer now, with his wings regrown.    
  
The tower was still the best option, he knows. Better than the throne room with the ruin of a window, better than any area with a wide space. The stairway down is a cramped source of safety, if only Castiel can get the prince to it.    
  
But with Lucifer before him, that doesn’t matter now.    
  
Carefully, as gently as he has time for, Castiel slides Prince Samuel’s legs out of the way with stiff flight feathers. He holds his other wing before him, ready to strike with the wrist or shield with the rest. He eyes Lucifer’s wings with as much caution as he does Lucifer’s blade.    
  
“Are you going to be like this all night?” Lucifer asks, as if Castiel is boring him.    
  
“Yes,” Castiel answers.    
  
They stand facing each other, more illuminated by the wounds on Lucifer’s right arm than by the stars above. He still prefers that arm, wielding his blade right-handed. The posture of his wings makes them look injured instead, both held back from the threat of further pain.    
  
Neither Castiel nor Lucifer moves. Air whistles through the few cracked panes of glass still standing, and neither angel moves.    
  
“There’s still time for you to fly away,” Lucifer reminds him.    
  
“Leave him, and I will let you go,” Castiel counters.    
  
“Mm, no.” Lucifer smiles in the human way, his expression slowly twisting into a glare like a human soul into a demon. “I’m sure you know exactly how long I’ve waited for something that could restore me. And after all, Sam and I have grown so close, these past few nights.” The glare does not so much soften into a smirk as meld into one. “You understand how it is, with these humans.”   
  
The allusion to Dean is meant to weaken him. It’s meant to harm him.    
  
Knowing this doesn’t make it any less effective.    
  
Grimly, Castiel readies himself for Lucifer’s attack.    
  
Lips quirked, Lucifer continues to wait, and Castiel slowly understands.    
  
To win, Castiel must kill Lucifer outright.    
  
To lose, Castiel need only falter once.    
  
There will be no reinforcements, not here. The portal supports only one angel at a time, and he is that angel. Human might is ineffective against Lucifer, and no one knows where Castiel has landed.    
  
Save for one unconscious man, weakened almost to the point of death, Castiel is alone.    
  
“If you want him, take him,” Castiel goads.    
  
Eyes on Michael’s blade, Lucifer hangs back. He stands tall but unbalanced, unused to his own body. He won’t attack until he is more secure in the opportunity than he is unsure of his balance.    
  
Good. Until Prince Samuel can drag himself to the door, Castiel resigns himself not to make the first move.    
  
“Is this about, what was her name?” Lucifer asks. “The one who came to ‘rescue’ Uriel from me.”   
  
Castiel is in control of his body. He is, above all other things, in control of his wings. Of himself.    
  
He does not attack. He does not posture.    
  
He does not move.    
  
“The flamewing,” Lucifer adds in a helpful tone, as if Castiel could possibly need to hear his late sister described. “She refused, too.”   
  
After Michael struck down Anna, Castiel had thanked him for doing what he himself could not. They were the appropriate words and he said them with his own mouth, unprompted, when Balthazar and Hannah would not.    
  
Compared to that, this is nothing.    
  
“You’re not very talkative, are you?” Lucifer remarks. “Then again, she wasn’t either. Refused to join me, refused to even talk. Very contrary.”   
  
The longer Lucifer speaks, the more Castiel regrets not preparing his back-up plan in advance. Between the choice of preparation and the choice of healing Dean’s parents, he ought to have prepared. And yet, thinking this, the regret grows distant. It’s a distraction, and he puts it aside.    
  
A hard noise hits his ears, the jarring rhythm of the clock tower proclaiming the hour. It’s too late to turn back, has been for some time, but those immense bells confirm it.    
  
Lucifer strikes under the cover of that distraction, but his wings telegraph each motion. Right-handed, Castiel parries Lucifer’s blade with Michael’s, and he punches forward with the wrist of his right wing. With battle well and truly joined, bruises darken and cuts shine. A flurry of motion elapses between each long toll of the deepest bell, a slow count up to twelve.    
  
At two, Castiel switches hands beneath the diversion of his wings.    
  
At three, he has Lucifer unbalanced.    
  
Four and five have their blades locked, hands grappling, wings pummeling.    
  
Six through eight find Castiel retreating, one foot pressing back against Prince Samuel’s leg.    
  
Nine is nearly his undoing, and ten is his recovery.    
  
Eleven is the turning point, Lucifer unwilling to shield his body at the expense of his wings.    
  
The twelfth toll echoes, louder than their pained breaths, and there, beside Lucifer, the tower door opens. There, shield in one hand, a bar of magelight in the other, is Dean.    
  
  
  
Legs aching, lungs burning, Dean slams the observatory door open and steps into the ruins of a private battlefield. He reacts before he knows what he’s seeing, and what he sees is this:   
  
Two dark figures, shining with stripes of silver. A third shape, crumpled at the base of the wall. An immense set of white wings, the flash of a blade, and the sudden rush of a shadow between Dean and it. The blade pierces through the shadow, Dean its clear target, and the blade stops, embedded to the hilt from the other side.    
  
His left wing impaled, Cas screams, and Dean does the only thing he can do.    
  
Dean darts behind him, dropping down, and grabs Sam. He skids on broken glass, shredding the knees of his thin dress pants. The magelight clatters to the floor, casting a thin glow of illumination onto the legs of the battling angels. Dean keeps the decorative shield up, keeps it turned toward Cas and the archangel beyond him, and he hopes beyond all other hopes that he carved the warding sigil correctly into its gilded surface. In between snagging it off the wall and running up here to fulfill Sam’s prediction, he hasn’t had much time to check his work.    
  
One-handed, unable to even risk looking down at his brother, he wrestles Sam’s arm over his shoulders. Before him, Castiel twists his wing around, disarming Lucifer at the cost of rending his own flesh. His scream is unending, a quaking cry of effort and agony, and Dean can’t allow himself to listen. The blade whips through the air as Castiel stabs Lucifer in the shoulder, and Lucifer strikes at Cas in return as if his wings had fists in the middle.    
  
“I’m here, I’m here,” Dean thinks he might be saying as he tries to drag Sam higher than a slump. His own mouth escapes him at the feel of Sam’s wrist, clammy and cool, under his fingers. “I’m where you told me to be, I’m here, I got you. Got you, Sammy, got you.”   
  
He looks for Jo, for Victor, for anyone who was right behind him on the stairs to follow, and then, beneath the volume of Castiel’s dwindling cries, Dean hears the pounding on the door. It’s somehow closed, impossibly barred. Somebody did that, and there’s only one suspect, the one summoning a blade back through the air and into his waiting hand. Those strange energy blasts Lucifer sent out in the throne room must be more capable of fine motion than Dean had thought.    
  
Rising into a crouch, Dean drags Sam with him. He can’t lift his overgrown brother any higher, not without setting down the warded shield. Still a limp weight, Sam lets out a pained grunt, his first sound of life, and it’s the most beautiful noise in the world.    
  
Cas shifts with him, keeping his back to Dean, his left wing sagging with its shining puncture wound. Even with the surreal addition of wings, his fighting tactics are clear, motions designed to unbalance rather than overwhelm. Lucifer is the one who overwhelms, pushing forward with harsh blows that force Castiel back. Castiel fights left-handed now, compensating for the weakness of his wing. His right wing turns more shield than weapon, and Lucifer strikes with his own wings only on Cas’ right, away from the stolen blade.    
  
“Afraid of getting those wings hurt, you fucking pigeon?” Dean taunts.    
  
Eyes blazing white-blue, Lucifer looks past Cas and down at him, just for an instant. Shattered glass rolls away from Lucifer’s feet in concentric waves. The fallen magelight bursts into glinting shards, but that pulse of power does nothing to Dean this time. A red glow emanates from the front of Dean’s shield as the warding takes effect. Sam, on the other hand, gets shoved back toward the wall by an invisible force, but then, he’s not touching the shield directly.    
  
Good to know.    
  
Dean tightens his grip on his unconscious brother, renewing his struggle toward the door. His only light is from the moon and stars and the angels’ wounds, but that is enough to see by. Sam’s legs drag behind, one unnaturally twisted. Never looking back at them, Cas nevertheless covers their progress, responding to where Lucifer presses him hardest. Blocking Lucifer’s blade, his right wing to Lucifer’s wrist, Cas comes in with a double assault on the left, blade high, injured wing low. Lucifer knocks Cas’ blade aside only for that low wing sweep to strike his knee.    
  
Lucifer staggers. Cas kicks him farther from the door. Rather than press the advantage, Cas plants himself between them and Lucifer. “Go, now!”   
  
Dean drags Sam in front of the door, Sam’s lower body trailing behind in a long line of defenselessness. Through the door, he hears Victor and Jo. His shoulder against it, he feels the pounding force of his knights trying to break it down. If he throws the bar now, they’ll shove him and Sam forward into Cas, and Lucifer will be on them in an instant.    
  
His balance regained, Lucifer renews his attack, redoubling his assault on Cas’ left. Cas’ puncture wound blazes light as he defends himself, a glowing surge that distinguishes Cas’ dark wings from the night sky beyond. The wound widens and widens, light spilling from it in an uncontrolled rupture. This is nothing like the gleam of his parents’ injuries closing. That had been a healing light, innately recognizable as such, but this, this is light meant to stay inside, meant to be as internal as blood. This, too, Dean knows by sight alone.    
  
But he also knows asshole tactics enough to predict them and shouts “Cas, on your right!” just as the onslaught shifts. Too late to parry, Cas blocks the blade with his right wing. He bleeds shadows in slow motion, the fall of black feathers discordantly soft, but he bleeds light all at once.    
  
Retreat pulls Cas back, but it puts him where Dean needs him. Again, Dean hauls his brother to the side, Cas shielding their new position on the handle side of the door. Still crouched, shield raised not to Cas but to Lucifer beyond, Dean shifts down Sam to tug Sam’s legs out of the way. His left leg is definitely broken, but only below the knee.    
  
The space is clear. Dean throws off the length of metal barring the door and shouts, “Victor, take Sam!”   
  
Although unbarred, the door doesn’t open, and not from lack of effort. The pounding from the other side continues. Dean grabs at the handle and yanks, but to no avail.    
  
“It won’t open!” Victor shouts through the heavy wood.   
  
“Get back, I’ll burn it down!” Jo orders.    
  
With the smoke of his parents’ charred bodies still in his nostrils, Dean recoils, fighting to keep his head. “No, he’ll turn it back on you!”   
  
“No magic!” Cas commands in a strained rasp. “He can twist it.”   
  
Lucifer strikes Cas to the side and Dean drops back down, hunched over Sam with the shield. He grabs Sam’s limp hand and presses it to the back of the shield, not knowing how much of Sam, if any, this will truly protect.    
  
Lucifer sighs at them. Actually fucking sighs before Cas is back on him. The door shifts all of half an inch, not enough for the edge of the door to even clear its frame, and then it slams back all the way shut as Lucifer throws out a hand.    
  
That’s going to be a problem.    
  
The fight rages on, inhuman. Despite what the epic ballads and poems might say, combat is bloody and fast, in each moment and overall. This is as long and ragged as Cas’ light-rended wings, as unending as the night sky beyond them. The decline is impossibly slow, but Dean can still see it: Cas is losing.    
  
Stripes of blue-white line them both, each bleeding, each panting. They clash and strike, block and counter. Shattered glass scatters with every step of their feet and sweep of their wings. Cas holds his own as best he can, devoid of any trace of an awkward human scholar. He is something else, something not real, something too real. He is buying them time, and Dean has to find a way to use it.    
  
With Cas still keeping Lucifer off them, Dean risks lifting the shield away from Sam. He holds it against the door, warding sigil first, and shouts, “Push!”   
  
The door gives slightly but only slightly. Between the dark wood and the shield, a patchy red glow rises. Too much door, not enough sigil.    
  
He lowers the shield onto Sam, tucking him beneath it as much as possible. Then he pulls Jo’s iron knife back out of his boot and begins to carve the door. Maybe the angel wounds glow brighter, maybe the clouds cover more stars, but the moment Dean’s life—Sam’s life—depends on fine detail, the ambient lighting decides to take the night off. Holding the pattern in his mind, he drags the knife down over the wood, into the wood. Heart pounding in his ears and hammering in his chest, he forces his motions slower, surer. Too big a mistake and he’ll have to start over.    
  
Cas cries out and Dean turns, ducking down for Sam and shield both. Cas’ left wing hangs down from his shoulder, the beginning of the end. There’s still time, maybe only a handful of moments.    
  
Dean carves faster. The square. The shapes within. How many lines? He drags the knife through each, as straight as he can manage against the grain of the wood.    
  
The knife sticks, a knot in the wood too thick. Dean wrests it free and tries again, but he can’t go around the knot, not without risking blatant imprecision. The line has to go through there, and only there.    
  
Behind Dean, there is a crunch.    
  
There is a shout.    
  
There is Castiel, bludgeoned to his knees. Arms crossed over his head, he holds off Lucifer’s blade with two of his own, a second angel blade having appeared out of nowhere. Not once tonight had Dean felt it on him, and Dean had plenty of opportunity.    
  
Cas had told him. Cas had fucking told him that angels summon their blades like spells. What else? What other crucial piece of information had Dean dismissed as a scholar’s theory?    
  
There’s no time to remember, not with Cas so close to falling. Their blades locked, Lucifer pummels at him from either side with both of his wings, and Cas can only defend on the right, his left wing now entirely limp. He takes the punishment on his left, his arm shaking hard where he tries to block.    
  
The shield on Sam and only Sam, Dean carves for both their sakes. The knot in the wood gives way stubbornly, and when Dean pulls hard on the knife’s handle, the blade turns the wrong way, scratching one long ruinous line.    
  
Dean curses, the bellow erupting out of him, but even this noise is lost beneath Castiel’s screams. There’s no time to start again. In a desperate rush, with futile hope, Dean completes the rest of the sigil, but the door still doesn’t give way. Every effort, ruined by that one errant line.    
  
“Dean!” Cas shouts.    
  
Dean ducks and turns in the same motion, almost swept away in another surge of power before he grabs hold of the shield. The sigil on it, correctly carved, glows a violent red. The knife jerks itself out of Dean’s other hand, proving that one small sigil isn’t enough to protect two grown men. The knife lands beyond Cas, behind Lucifer, and it might as well have fallen off the tower entirely.    
  
With his right wing high and shielding over his own head, Castiel buckles beneath the blows Lucifer rains down upon him. Another sharp crack bursts through the night air, originating somewhere around Cas’ knees.    
  
“Dean!” Cas shouts again. One hand grappling with Lucifer for the archangel’s blade, he throws his other hand back. One of his own blades slides across the glass-strewn stone floor to Dean, hilt-first.    
  
Dean snatches the blade up as Castiel goes down. Lucifer wrenches Cas’ right wing around, both grabbing and skewering him. Twisting one wing and stepping on the other, Lucifer pins Cas down on his stomach. A fresh burst of light shines out between Cas and the stone floor: he’s fallen on his own blade.    
  
“Cas!” Dean yells, and Lucifer spares him a glance. Even with bloody wings and shining defensive wounds down his arms, he looks as if he’s above it all, uncaring, but his invisible hold forcing the door shut is proof enough of that lie.    
  
Tutting, Lucifer runs his blade through Cas’ longest feathers, clipping the wing as casually as shaving his own face. Cas fights to rise and Lucifer stomps down twice, once on Cas’ limp left wing, and once on Cas’ head.    
  
The crack splits the air. It flays Dean open before his eyes can inform his brain.    
  
The stone, his eyes say. The floor.    
  
The stone floor itself is cracked. Cas moans, low and pained but alive.    
  
“Hey, Nick!” Dean shouts.    
  
Lucifer looks at him, eyebrow raised, as if to rebuke Dean for the rudeness of his volume.    
  
Leaving the shield on top of Sam, Dean stands tall in front of his brother and brandishes the angel blade. “He’s warded now, bitch,” Dean continues, because that is the important thing. That is the only thing, even with Cas dying on the floor. Even with Dean about to join him.    
  
Blade now digging into the meat of Castiel’s wing, Lucifer pauses as much as he ever pauses. Each time Cas struggles to rise, Lucifer kicks him again, and another surge of light flows out from beneath Cas.    
  
“There’s no point,” Dean adds. “Kill him, kill me, you’re still not getting Sam. You need me to move that shield off him.” Because that’s what Cas really taught him about angels, even if he didn’t mean to. Cas going on about needing gloves for artifacts, knowing full well that skin oil wasn’t about to harm an angel blade, or stone. “But I’m not going to take that warding off.”   
  
With a faint smirk, holding Cas’ wing pinned with both of his own, Lucifer plucks something out from Cas’ wing. Dean assumes feathers before he sees it for what it is: a scrap of ribbon.    
  
“How cold,” Lucifer remarks in the same compassionate tone he’d used to tell stories of the Royal Hospital. “Poor Castiel.” He strokes one hand up Cas’ wing in faux-sympathy, again tutting. “You’d let your lover die?”    
  
Dean looks Lucifer in the eye and speaks the truth of his life. “No one’s more important than Sam.”   
  
Lucifer sighs and pierces Cas’ wing. He twists the knife and speaks over Castiel’s gasping cries. “I’m not going to kill Sam, you know. I think it would be wonderful to keep him around, don’t you?”   
  
Dean holds his ground as Cas’ wounds light up the broken observatory tower. He holds his ground as Cas screams. He holds his ground, and his blade, and his heart behind his teeth.    
  
“Remove the warding now,” Lucifer offers, “and I will give you back your seraph alive.”   
  
“No,” Cas groans before Dean can answer. Whether in refusal or to beg an end to the torture, there should be no way of telling. But maybe, maybe, Dean does know him just well enough.    
  
“You heard the man,” Dean says.    
  
Lucifer looks upon him with his face in the shape of pity. “If it won’t be the carrot, it’ll have to be the stick,” he warns in a half-singsong. With that, he cracks Cas’ wing with the resounding snap of bone. Dropping the limp limb, he steps over Castiel, again kicking him to the side with the debris of bent stools and broken telescopes.    
  
“You gonna fly away while you still can?” Dean goads. The reach of his blade is too short, the reach of Lucifer’s wings too long. If Lucifer comes at him with more than two limbs at once, Dean’s lost. Making Lucifer afraid to risk his wings is Dean’s only bet. “Took you long enough to get those bad boys back, be a shame if you wrecked them now.”   
  
Almost lazily, Lucifer stretches out a hand, and Dean goes flying. He braces for a fall to his death but instead smacks into the tower door, his head striking the stone wall above that stubborn wood. Years of fighting ghosts has trained his grip, but though he still clutches the blade tight, he can’t move his arms enough to use it. He can’t move anything. His clothes dig into his skin, and his ribs force the breath from his lungs.    
  
“It would be a shame,” Lucifer agrees, approaching with four deliberate steps, hand still outstretched. He looks down to Dean’s left where Sam still lies prone, motionless beneath the shield. “You only warded it against angels. Good.”   
  
“What?” Dean taunts, using up more air than he truly has. If he could only move his legs, he’d be at the perfect height to kick Lucifer right in the crotch. “You gonna fly in some demons to help you?”   
  
Lucifer shakes his head as if Dean’s told a passable attempt at a joke. “This castle is too well warded to bring in a demon. No.” Another shake of the head. He does something strange, then, and slides his own blade up his sleeve. There’s another faint light, different from that of bleeding, and the blade is gone.    
  
Smiling slightly, unnervingly calm and willingly unarmed, Lucifer pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his pocket. He reaches up with his left hand and wraps cold fingers around Dean’s neck. He doesn’t squeeze, but it’s more than enough to know that he could. “No, Dean,” he continues, deliberately neglectful of title. “I have a demon right here.”   
  
Held high against the one full-sized wall around the observatory, Dean can see everything. The castle. The city beyond, sprawling in all directions out into their kingdom. Cas, bleeding light on the floor and still fighting to rise. And Sam, Sam most of all, hurt and drained and unconscious. Everything Dean’s human heart cares about.    
  
“I’m burning the door down!” Jo yells, muffled behind him.    
  
“I’m on the door!” Dean yells back, as much as he’s able. Still smiling faintly, Lucifer permits him that much air.    
  
“Only for a minute,” Lucifer promises, calm and level, a tutor with an amusingly misbehaving charge. “And then you’re going to lift that shield, kill the seraph, and return my brother’s sword to me. Do you understand?”   
  
“I understand you’re full of bullshit,” Dean shoots back, and the pain begins.    
  
It begins.    
  
And begins.    
  
And begins.    
  
There is no end to it, only fresh waves that sear across his entire skin before consolidating over his heart. They burn and blaze, a twisting heat that fights to break out of his chest, that strives to burrow inside it. The heat rises, but darkness rises faster.    
  
When Dean can again see, his throat is raw. His skin is tight and his chest still burns, branded in a circle over his heart. Gasping for air, he discovers that the only perk of passing out while facing a clock tower is knowing exactly how long he was out. It wasn’t even a minute, but it feels a thousand years.    
  
“Strange,” Lucifer remarks, frowning at last. Releasing his hold on Dean’s neck, he runs his hand over Dean’s chest. When his fingers land over the anti-possession tattoo, he smiles, somehow sensing it even through Dean’s layers. “So that’s the problem. Easily fixed.”   
  
Lucifer flexes his hand, drops his arm, and when he lifts his hand, he again holds his blade. With the tip, he draws a line from Dean’s neck to the tattoo, and Dean’s jacket and shirts part easily beneath it. In what must be his excuse for bedside manner, Lucifer pulls back the cloth from Dean’s tattoo. Unrushed, unhurried, he presses the side of the blade against Dean’s pectoral, ready to flay off the tattoo in one stroke.    
  
“Time to cut it out,” Lucifer tells him.    
  
“That’s a stupid fucking joke,” Dean says.    
  
Lucifer shrugs slightly, wings rising and falling, and over that wave of white and pearl, Dean sees Cas lift himself up. Wings still down, lower body motionless, Cas pushes his torso up, his blade beneath one forearm on the floor. His other hand is raised. His eyes are shining, literally shining like wounds themselves, but that isn’t what makes Dean shout.    
  
Before, only Castiel’s sleeves were in tatters. Now, his shirt and vest are ripped open, the jagged sides framing a shining symbol, a blood sigil carved directly into his skin.    
  
“Cas!” Dean screams, unable to move, unable to stop him.    
  
“Close your eyes!” Cas shouts, and before Lucifer can finish turning around, Cas slams his hand to his chest in an activation strike.    
  
In a night of blazing lights and raging fires, this blast is the brightest of them all.    
  
Dean falls from the door, falls through empty space, falls to the floor. His legs cry at the impact, their pain immediately lost beneath the screaming of his skin. Blinded through the insubstantial shield of his own eyelids, he sweeps his head back and forth, fighting to see. Something hard strikes him in the foot and Dean scrambles away in a twitching crawl, the angel blade still clenched in his right hand. He scrambles to Sam, to where he thinks Sam is, and it takes too long to recognize the voices trying to calm him.    
  
“Dean,” someone says, keeps saying, the word too urgent for a mere name. “Dean, where’d they go?”   
  
“Jo?” Dean asks, squinting into the absolute darkness of the night.    
  
“Right here,” she says, putting her hand over his clenched fist. Gently but firmly, she pulls the angel blade out of his hand before he can stab someone by accident.    
  
“No touch healer,” Dean says, holding on to Sam with both hands now.    
  
“Yeah, he was a fucking angel,” Victor says somewhere from above.    
  
“No,” Jo says. “He means Sam needs a breath healer. Has to be a breath healer for Sam. Dean, where are the angels?”   
  
“Don’t know,” Dean says, feeling over Sam’s dim shape until his hand finds the shield. He hears more feet, more voices, all of them ready to protect Sam. “Can’t see.”   
  
“Did they fly away?”   
  
Dean shakes his head, the shape of the blood sigil still seared into his eyes.    
  
“No,” he says, holding his brother tight. Sam lets out a particularly loud breath at the squeeze, because he, at least, is alive.   
  
“No,” Dean says again. “They’re gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see what else I'm up to or get (potentially) faster responses to questions and comments, follow me on [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, everybody.
> 
> (For those of you who followed me down this rabbit hole from other fandoms and have no knowledge of SPN, here is a canon clip, less than two minutes, of [what Castiel just did](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPFbA5or4lM).)


	11. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got another long one, so you know the drill: get your snacks and remember your tea.

In the morning, there is training, and Dean does not go.

 

He’s still awake. Has been all night. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. He might have dropped off at some point. He’s not sure if the ache in his back and neck is from getting slammed into doors or from an impromptu nap leaning over Sam’s bed.

 

Jess took one of those earlier. Her chair wedged in next to Dean’s, she holds Dean’s hand tight because she can’t risk taking Sam’s. Dean’s reminded her that she is, after all, primarily a breath healer, but each time, she shakes her head and says she can’t trust herself not to try to heal him. If she touches him, she will try to feel for his condition, and even that small act of magic will drain Sam further. They’ve brought in more senior healers, medics without Jess’ level of attachment, to fix Sam’s leg as best they can.

 

At some point, Dean’s own wounds have been taken care of. He’s not sure when he lost them. He’s not even sure when he gained all of them. He had bloody shins and badly scraped hands, a small piece of broken glass in one of his knuckles. There’d been a bruise on his head and a scabbing line across his chest. Above the anti-possession tattoo, there was a deep cut, the beginnings of being skinned, and Dean had forgotten even that pain until it was taken away, as gently removed from his chest as his weapon had been from his hands. He retrieved it from Jo as soon as he was able to see, and now the angel blade rides again at his hip.

 

The shield still lies across Sam’s chest, and only its slow rise and fall prevents the image from being that of a funeral pyre. More warding is already etched into the doors, making the shield redundant, but no one moves it. Since about one in the morning, so much of that warding has gone up across the castle, copied off the boxes from the vault.

 

“Need to get him new shirts,” Dean says.

 

Jess looks up at him, eyes red and bleary. She blinks a few times before nodding. “With the warding on?”

 

“Yeah. Woven in.”

 

Jess looks back at Sam. They both do.

 

“Hold his hand for me again?” Jess asks.

 

Dean does. “He’s a lot warmer.”

 

Jess draws her legs up, the toes of her dress shoes on the edge of Sam’s bed, and she hugs her knees. She’s out of her costume and what passes for her casual clothes, but her flagging energy turns the dress into a nightgown. Jess’ chin lowers as her head and eyelids fight to fall. “He’s normally a furnace.”

 

“Believe me, this is loads better than he was,” Dean says, even though he knows Jess already knows. It’s been looping conversation for hours, on only a few topics. Jess’ fear when first hearing the commotion in the throne room, for example. Waiting to be brought out for her engagement kiss at midnight, she’d been in the side room, the same space King John had interrogated Cas in, so very long ago. Two nights ago? Three? Dean forces the thought aside, along with all the rest.

 

When the musicians panicked and fled from Lucifer, they’d left chairs scattered in front of the side room door. Jess is still furious about it, but when Sam wakes up, he’ll be pleased to know Jess was kept safe, if only by a pile of furniture.

 

“The king and queen almost looked well when they went to bed,” Jess says, a return to another well-trod subject.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and he forces this thought away too. The image. The smell. He clears his throat and makes himself breathe. “Thanks for that.”

 

“There actually wasn’t much left to heal,” Jess says, skirting around the one subject Dean’s made clear they’re not discussing. “If there’s any internal damage, it was too deep for me to get to, but… Besides being a little balder than usual, I think Their Majesties are going to be fine.”

 

“I thought they were dead,” Dean says without meaning to, holding Sam’s hand tighter than he should.

 

Jess takes Dean’s other hand, squeezes it hard, and, as simple as that, becomes his sister. “I thought so, too. When, when I heard it. Them. But.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He clears his throat again. “Sam tell you about the dream he had?”

 

“The one he was sure wasn’t a vision?”

 

“Once he wakes up, we’re giving him so much shit for that.”

 

Jess looks at him, close to chastising. Dean expects it for the light profanity, but what Jess says is, “He said it felt like a vision where he wasn’t there, except he knew he was.”

 

“So?”

 

“So now we know he can have visions of himself being unconscious, and he knows how they feel,” Jess concludes.

 

Dean thinks about that. “Huh,” he says.

 

Leaning forward, Jess sets her feet back on the floor and says, “Sam, if you’re having a vision of this right now, squeeze Dean’s hand.”

 

Sam doesn’t squeeze back, but that’s fine. That’s going to be fine. Sam’s going to wake up and he’ll be thrilled that Jess has dropped the “Sir” that’s long haunted the front of Dean’s name.

 

“Y’know, you can hold his hand too,” Dean insists, a creeping awkwardness at their position overtaking him. “I can find you gloves, keep you from running a health check on him.”

 

Jess shakes her head. “If I can’t control the impulse, I shouldn’t be touching him, ever.”

 

“Think Sam might disagree there,” Dean points out.

 

Blushing more than a little, Jess lets go of Dean’s hand in a hurry. Dean releases Sam as well and stands, stretching his legs with more than a few aching pops accompanying the motion. He doesn’t mean to pace, but it keeps him awake despite the cracking yawn that keeps taking over his face.

 

“We should be doing shifts,” Jess says.

 

“We are,” Dean says. “Once our parents are up, one of them will be in here.”

 

Jess looks like she’s about to debate the merit of them being up and about so soon, but can’t find the thread of the argument.

 

Dean keeps pacing around the room, but mostly in front of the door. His hand doesn’t want to leave the hilt of his angel blade. His brother’s sword, Lucifer had called it. Which would make it Michael’s or Gabriel’s, if common myth is actually common fact. It’s an archangel blade, at least, and powerful enough to wound another archangel.

 

He forces his hand to his side. He forces his steps away from their prowling paranoia in front of the door. He forces his body and mind to obey and stop wandering, because he’s not thinking about any of this right now. Not until Sam wakes up.

 

Yeah, there’s potentially a pissed off archangel somewhere in the kingdom. Maybe he was blasted away even farther or hurt or maybe even killed, but until they see a body, they can’t know for sure. They don’t know anything, beyond that the warding works, that this blade is powerful, and that the tablet is important enough for an angel to—it’s important.

 

They won’t know anything more until midnight, and they won’t even get a chance to ask for over twelve hours yet. The portal opens next at seven in the evening. Provided they find it in time to throw a letter through, there’s no telling if that piece of communication will actually make it across, or that the other angels will be willing to reply.

 

“Will you please sit down?” Jess politely demands, tired annoyance lacing her tone.

 

“No,” Dean says, because he is an asshole. He does stand still in front of Sam’s shelves, though. He stares at books and bits and baubles he stared at yesterday, after Sam’s training session with Jo. Wait, no. Two days ago.

 

That was two days ago.

 

They found out Sam was a vessel three fucking nights ago.

 

And, says a pesky thought, somehow Lucifer already knew.

 

“Jess,” Dean says, staring sightlessly at one of Sam’s legal tomes. “When did ‘Nick’ show up at the Royal Hospital?”

 

He hears her shift around in her chair, and it might be the first time she’s fully looked away from Sam in hours. “Beginning of February,” she says, and Dean ignores the guilt in her voice. As much as Dean wants to scream at every healer in the capital for falling over themselves to kiss that guy’s ass, Sam’s the one who actually went and kissed fucking _Lucifer_.

 

Sammy’s gonna have to live forever if he’s ever going to live it down.

 

“So,” Dean pieces together, “basically right after Jo drew from Sam the first time.” The fireball incident had been at the very end of January.

 

A pause. “I think so, yes,” Jess agrees.

 

There’s always more shit along the border. All that crap they chase out of the center of the country, it all winds up on the outskirts, and that applies as much to disembodied demons as it does rampaging rugarus. He’s considered those demons as threats for a very long time, but not necessarily as spies.

 

Lucifer must have been looking for a vessel for a long time. Six and half hundred years, give or take, probably thwarted by the fact that he’d already turned the ones he’d had into archdemons. It’s exactly the kind of vindictive irony Dean is petty enough to savor.

 

“Asshole knew what he was doing, I’ll give him that,” Dean says. Appearing as a miraculous doctor with unfathomable abilities right as Sam’s gearing up toward marriage and heirs and pregnancy risks.

 

“Can we talk about something else please,” Jess says, firm for all her voice is strained.

 

“Yeah, all right.” She’s avoided another topic well enough for him. He obliges her before she can stop obliging him. He plucks that old stuffed horse off Sam’s shelf. He returns to their chairs, holds it out, and says, “This is Sully.”

 

Jess looks at it, biting her lip. “Tell me about her. Him?”

 

“Him,” Dean agrees, and he lets every embarrassing story flood out. Every single thing Sam would want to interrupt, Dean says. He talks and talks, and Jess almost laughs. Just the once, she almost laughs, but then she almost cries, and neither of them try laughing again after that.

 

When Dean’s voice is more exhausted than his body, Jess takes over, sharing the parts of Sam’s life Dean wasn’t there for. He doesn’t know even a fifth of the stories, and then, he only knows those from Sam’s side.

 

It’s almost a distraction, but only almost. The moment Sam shifts in his bed, abruptly closer to sleeping than merely unconscious, both of them fall silent. Dean grabs Sam’s hand and Jess grabs Dean’s elbow. “Sammy?”

 

Sam doesn’t move again, but they don’t go back to talking. They sit and wait in their vigil. Sit and do nothing while someone else lays fresh warding into the walls of the castle. While Bobby organizes the knights and Rufus devises better ways of fighting angels than Dean’s disastrous attempt last night. While so many things happen that Dean should be doing. It’s still too early in the day for Parliament to be in session, but with the sheer number of people in the throne room last night, most of Parliament must already know what happened. Must know some version of what happened, at least.

 

It’s not as if Dean could go before Parliament anyway, but with King John recovering and Sam out cold, Dean worries about it for them. What are they going to tell people? More importantly, what are people going to believe?

 

The answer to that comes soon enough, borne on remarkably steady legs. King John doesn’t knock before entering, because he never knocks before entering. Dean’s on his feet in an instant; not respectfully, but with his blade half-drawn. Behind Dean, Jess stands far more appropriately, but Dean still gets the sense she was an instant away from flinging herself bodily across Sam.

 

King John waves them both down. Jess sits. Dean offers his father his chair before sitting on the side of Sam’s bed. It puts Dean back in his rightful spot, between the door and his family.

 

Without prompting, Jess tells King John about Sam’s breathing and color these past hours. His own color good, his singed hair now cut very short, King John nods along, eyes never leaving Sam. He’s still looking at Sam when he says, “Dean, your mother and I have discussed this, and we’re telling Parliament we knew Castiel was an angel the entire time.”

 

Dean looks at his father, who doesn’t look back, and says, “Yes, sir.”

 

“We’ve already sent off a retinue to bring Seer Shurley in. If he freely gave his invitation to that creature, he’ll corroborate our version of events or face the charge of treason.”

 

“What story will he be corroborating, sir?” Dean asks, voice flat.

 

“Seer Shurley caught wind of a threat he couldn’t identify,” King John informs him. “He somehow procured an angel to protect Sam, which is what Castiel was here to do. Every time you and he went off on your own, it was to discuss security matters, is that clear? The... rest,” he settles on, “was a pretense. You said he cut a blood sigil on himself?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says.

 

“Then he’s too dead to contradict,” King John concludes. “If he died protecting Sam, then that’s what he was here for.”

 

“Dad, he was after a fucking rock in the basement,” Dean snaps, as abrupt and as discordant as a string that refused to be tuned.

 

King John looks at him coolly. “Did you tell anyone this?”

 

“No. Sir.”

 

“Did you ever hear him tell anyone this?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Then he was here to protect Sam,” King John tells him. “You said that portal opens next at seven?”

 

“And then midnight,” Dean confirms, his mouth back under control. “He, uh.”

 

He’d asked. For Dean to send his body back, but there is no body. There was nothing left of the angels on the tower after that blast of light. No bodies, no feathers. Not even blood. Nothing biologically angelic. A couple scraps of shredded clothing don’t count.

 

There’s a ragged piece of ribbon in Dean’s pocket, and he’s not thinking about it.

 

“He what?” King John asks.

 

“He said it was in the hedge maze, but he didn’t say where. And we should send word that they have at least one traitor working with Lucifer.”

 

“Unless they send that traitor through,” King John counters. “We have to assume the seven o’clock portal is an entry portal.”

 

“The sigil doesn’t work like a devil’s trap,” Dean says, following his father’s mind with ease. “If we’re going to keep an angel contained, we need a tent over the entire hedge maze with the sigil painted on the whole thing.” And if they’re still planning on throwing a letter on through… “Anyone inside should be warded, too, and if other angels can appropriate magic the way Lucifer could, no one can be permitted to cast spells.”

 

“I’ll get someone on it,” King John says without correcting any feature of that plan, which is borderline praise.

 

“Anything else, sir?” Dean asks.

 

“Stay with your brother,” King John instructs, though even he seems to know this order is redundant.

 

“Your Majesty,” Jess says. She waits for King John to look at her before she asks, “What will we tell people about, about Lucifer?” The name is still difficult for her to say. “He grew wings by draining Sam. Almost everyone with political or economic pull in the country saw it.”

 

“They saw him turn my own flames on me,” King John says, barely a flicker of wounds or wounded pride in his face. Dean sees it in the rest of him, the way his father’s hands flex with the ache for a sword. It’s a motion Dean knows well, from the inside. “He can wrest magic from mages, and a seer’s magic is a powerful tool. He concealed his wings and knocked Sam out with angel magics we aren’t familiar with.”

 

“He wanted Sam for status and power,” Dean adds, fleshing out the story with ease. “Plus the bragging rights for having gotten the Last Unwed Kiss. He didn’t need it for his wings to regrow, he wanted it just to show off.”

 

King John nods along as Dean speaks. “Exactly,” he says. “He insinuated himself into the Royal Hospital for that purpose, and we’re going to take the director to task for her grievous oversights. First for failing to realize an employee wasn’t human, and then allowing him use of her invitation.”

 

Dean nods back. “It’ll show Seer Shurley what we’ll do if he doesn’t cooperate.”

 

At that, King John faintly smiles. Not at some vindictive thought of punishment, no. Just at Dean, talking politics. The expression is there and gone in an instant, but it will linger in Dean’s mind for a long time to come. “Exactly,” King John says again, and stands. Dean and Jess stand with him, but rather than see himself out, King John gives Dean a pointed look.

 

His feet heavy but not dragging, Dean follows his father into Sam’s sitting room. He closes the door to Sam’s bedroom and doesn’t immediately understand what’s happening when his father embraces him.

 

“Never be that stupid again,” King John commands, voice mercifully lowered in Dean’s ear. It’s possible Jess can’t hear him, but without the barrier of embarrassment, rage flashes through Dean’s body.

 

“I won’t,” Dean grits out, hands clenched at his sides, trying to preempt the lecture on his love life.

 

John hugs him tighter and chastises, “Dean, you weren’t even armed, I taught you better than that.”

 

Dean’s mind stalls like a combustion carriage with an exhausted mage. “I,” he says, and swallows. He hugs his father in return, arms looping around his back. Fighting down the urge to apologize, he holds his ground and his father at the same time. “I had a warded shield, and Cas had the only weapon that would have done anything anyway.”

 

John doesn’t say anything in return, not until after they pull away. “You have it now,” he says, looking down at the archangel blade on Dean’s hip.

 

“He slid it back to me,” Dean says, shoulders back, chin high. “When he couldn’t protect Sam and me from Lucifer anymore, he gave it back.”

 

“A common enemy does not guarantee an ally, Dean,” King John lectures. “Whatever agenda he had, he didn’t disclose it and we can’t trust it. He wasn’t protecting you and Sam, he was attacking Lucifer. For all we know, he was going to take Sam himself.”

 

“With respect, sir, you didn’t fight alongside him,” Dean says. “If he wanted to kill Lucifer, he didn’t need to bother bringing Sam down out of the air, safe. I saw how they flew: he would have had the advantage in the air, but he came down for Sam’s sake. And if he was going to use Sam, he could have healed himself, but he didn’t.”

 

“You still want to see the best in him,” King John says, both observation and accusation.

 

“No, I want to see what the fuck actually happened,” Dean says. Not shouts. Or shouts only a little. “He was after the tablet in the basement. He wanted Lucifer dead or defeated enough to kill himself over it. _That’s_ all we know.”

 

Except, they do know more than that, if he can trust anything Cas said.

 

Seeing the hesitation on Dean’s face, King John asks, “What else?”

 

“He thought Lucifer was banished into some other ‘realm’ or something. I pressed him on it a couple of times, and it was weird. Every other angel thing, he talked about it like a scholarly debate, citations and all, but Lucifer’s banishment, he’d just, I don’t know, assumed. Nothing to back it up.”

 

“As if repeating something he’d been told,” King John supposes.

 

Dean nods. “Unless his higher-ups were deliberately screwing him over on a mission they sent him on, none of them expected Lucifer to be here.”

 

“And what do you think that mission was?” King John asks.

 

The kicker is, Dean’s pretty sure Cas told him, right to his fucking face. In hindsight, there’s a lot of shit Cas told him to his face, right down to which archangel he’d originally served.

 

“He talked a lot about that banishment theory and said he was looking for ‘proof.’ If that tablet counts as proof, it has to do something. I’m thinking they really are all banished or something, and the portal is the only way out. Otherwise, why bother?” It must be ludicrously energy-consuming magic, ripping holes in reality. And they can fly: they’re not lacking for means of transportation.

 

“If they want it that badly, they’d best be prepared to bargain,” King John concludes.

 

“When are you drafting the letter, sir?” Dean asks.

 

“You’ve already reported what happened last night,” King John tells him. “I don’t need to make you go over it again. Your mother certainly doesn’t want me to.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “I want to send a letter, too. Questions. To work out what was lies and what was, I don’t know. Metaphor.” When King John narrows his eyes, Dean adds, “I can’t know if he slipped up and told me something he shouldn’t have, if I don’t know what was grounded in fact. He told me about the angel warding when he shouldn’t have. There might be more.”

 

More lies, certainly. There’s no way Cas had a sister who got possessed, for a start. Or that he and his remaining siblings live in a slum. Or that his wings were magicked on, or that he’d write back, or that he was even _human_.

 

Dean’s an idiot.

 

He’s such a fucking idiot.

 

“Write it,” King John decides. “I’ll inspect it before I send them both.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

There’s a pause before King John reaches for him. They don’t look at each other even while they hug. King John slaps him hard on the back before they part and says, “Don’t leave your brother’s side.”

 

“Most important job in the kingdom,” Dean replies.

 

King John nods, his seriousness turning an uncomfortable joke into the purest truth. “Send word when he wakes.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, and King John takes his leave. Again out of paranoia, Dean waits for Sam’s warded outer door to be closed before he opens the warded door to the bedroom. There’s going to be some serious door-closing protocol in place for a while, he decides.

 

Back in Sam’s room, Jess is still in her chair, closest to Sam’s head. She looks up at Dean when he closes the door behind him, and she smiles.

 

Dean’s legs eat up the distance to Sam’s bed. He looks at his brother and he listens to Sam’s steady breathing, and then he starts to laugh. He smacks Sam on the foot, or at least on a foot-like lump beneath the blankets. He even does it on the uninjured leg. “Dad’s gone.”

 

Slowly, Sam cracks an eye open. Just the one, as if two eyelids are too heavy a burden. Just as slowly, he pulls in a deeper breath. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is too small for a man so large.

 

“Hey yourself,” Dean says.

 

Sam’s mouth twitches, or maybe he tries to say something. It’s either the tiniest of smiles or only looks like one. Gradually, more like falling than turning, he shifts his head to better look at Jess beside him. “Hey,” he says again.

 

Jess holds on to his sleeve. Not the cuff, but the elbow, the absolute farthest away from his bare skin as she can get while still touching him. “I love you,” she says, sounding about to cry.

 

“Marry me,” Sam says.

 

She nods, a half-frantic bobbing of the head, but she doesn’t kiss him.

 

Sam nudges his chin toward her, his head not even inching along the pillow. His eye falls shut, and Jess still doesn’t kiss him. Sam waits a long sleepy wait before painstakingly opening both his eyes. “Jess?”

 

“You got a witness,” Dean points out, knowing that the technicalities of proposals aren’t what’s stopping her. “It’ll count. Besides, if you don’t kiss him, he’ll have to do his Last Unwed Kiss again and get his tongue bitten off by a vampire or something.”

 

Jess is too distraught to take a joke, but Sam snorts, drunk on exhaustion.

 

“I won’t hurt you,” Jess says, a quiet but firm refusal.

 

“You won’t,” Sam agrees, still waiting for his kiss.

 

Jess looks to Dean for help, but Dean just looks back and nods toward his brother. Slowly, Jess shifts her hand lower. She taps one fingertip against the back of Sam’s hand, and she braces against the tiny touch as if expecting it to have the effect of a lightning strike.

 

Nothing happens. Sam’s breathing remains constant, and he doesn’t even close his eyes.

 

She touches his hand longer, and then holds it. She holds it hard and then she starts crying. Sam looks up at Dean in the most pathetic way possible, and this is how Dean ends up hugging his brother’s sobbing almost-fiancee. Somehow, they endure the awkwardness. Jess dries her eyes with one of Sam’s sheets, which is definitely an improvement over Dean’s shirt.

 

Finally, Jess stands from her chair and leans over the bed. Sam makes the mistake of trying to sit up, and mostly just shifts his arms on the bed, trying to push himself upright. Jess leans down all the way. As engagement kisses go, it’s brief. Dean probably kissed Jo for longer yesterday morning, and that’s not a thought he needs right now.

 

When Jess sits back down, Dean sits as well, watching Jess hold Sam’s hand now with both of hers. She brings it to her face and cups her own cheek with Sam’s hand. Sam smiles.

 

“You don’t look all that confused,” Dean says, interrupting before things can take a turn for the truly gross.

 

Sam’s smile fades. “About that,” Sam says. It shouldn’t be possible for him to sound more tired, but he manages it.

 

“You having visions of the past now?” Dean asks, because of course Sam is. Why not.

 

“No,” Sam says. He takes a deliberately slow breath before adding, “I think I saw it as it happened. From the outside.”

 

Dean hears Jess swear for the first time, and she’s better at it than he would have expected.

 

“Pretty much,” Sam agrees, stroking her face with his thumb. The effort looks monumental.

 

“Next time you get drained to death, how about you _don’t_ keep using your magic through it,” Dean orders. He doesn’t have the authority, but he orders it anyway.

 

“Kinda involuntary, Dean,” Sam says, which is not the fucking point.

 

“Don’t care,” Dean says. “Don’t do it. And no more visions until you rest up.”

 

“I’m with Dean on this,” Jess agrees.

 

Sam looks between the two of them with a happy sort of muddled confusion. He only moves his eyes, but even this seems to take too much energy. Dean kind of wants to shake him, but only a lot. The urge fades as Sam’s mouth sags, Sam too tired to properly yawn. “All right,” Sam slurs.

 

Watching him, unable to stop watching him, Dean says, “I’m gonna let Mom and Dad know you woke up. And then went right back to sleep. Yeah?”

 

Sam groans quietly. “Fine.”

 

“Look, not even Dad’s gonna lecture you while you’re this pathetic,” Dean says. “You’ll get a half-lecture, tops, and that might even be it.”

 

For someone pretty much made of exhaustion, Sam manages a surprisingly solid expression of disbelief.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, but he stands up anyway.

 

“Wait,” Sam says, making a different face, one that hasn’t much changed since he was a toddler. It’s been a long, long while since Dean was asked to do anything about it, though. “I, uh.”

 

“You want me to haul you to the toilet?” Dean asks.

 

Evidently too tired for embarrassment, Sam blinks his eyes _yes_.

 

“I’ll send word to your parents while you help him,” Jess tells Dean.

 

“I dunno,” Dean says. “If anyone’s holding his dick for him, it should be you.”

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, and apparently he isn’t too tired for embarrassment after all.

 

Jess pinks considerably, but she does shrug and say, “You’re not wrong.”

 

In the end, Dean just plunks his overgrown little brother down on the toilet and Sam goes sitting down. Dean keeps snickering to stay sane, or maybe he’s already lost it.

 

By the time Dean gets Sam tucked back into bed, Jess has summoned a servant and sent out the message. Jess sits back down while Dean sets the shield lower over Sam, now across his thighs so Sam can sit up. It’s redundant and doesn’t look comfortable, especially not with the break and the cast, but nobody questions or complains.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, propped up against the headboard, and he’s about to ask.

 

Dean shakes his head.

 

Sam asks it anyway: “Where’s Cas?”

 

Dean keeps shaking his head. “We’re not doing this,” he says. “We’re just, we’re not doing this.”

 

“Was there ash?” Sam asks.

 

“What?”

 

“He said their wings burn when they die,” Sam says. “So if there wasn’t ash…”

 

“Sammy, he’s dead, all right? Carved a blood sigil right into his chest. His corpse got flung somewhere, so the idiot went and scattered his own damn ashes. Real polite of him. Very thoughtful.” His volume increases, too loud, too fast, and Dean snaps his mouth shut before he can rant even more.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and he looks it in more ways than one.

 

“Yeah, well.” Dean forces his fists back into mere hands. “You should be sleeping. Or eating. Resting.”

 

“I sent for food,” Jess says, and Dean could really warm up to this whole sister thing.

 

“Did either of you sleep?” Sam asks.

 

“Yes,” both of them say in half-guilty unison, their new siblinghood off to a strong start.

 

When the food arrives, the servant bringing it finds an odd sight. After all, it’s not every day the future queen and her eventual brother-in-law haul a couch out of the crown prince’s sitting room and into his bedroom. Dean sits up blearily on the couch, but at least he doesn’t draw his sword on the poor woman. Curled together on Sam’s bed, Jess on top of the sheets and Sam below, the newly engaged couple sleeps on. Dean directs the tray to Sam’s desk, thanks the servant, and then goes back to sleep, too exhausted to dream.

  
  


Getting the letters through the portal is an undertaking of massive proportions.

 

Hours in advance, a massive pavilion tent is painted with warding sigil after warding sigil. The same goes for a vast number of coats and jackets. The stated reason behind the warding is the simple fact that the angels have a traitor in their midst, and, lacking a description of Uriel, any angel who appears from the portal is to be regarded as a threat. The pavilion tent will keep an angel trapped inside, once it’s put up over the entire maze.

 

While all of the warding dries, every knight and guard available is prepped for the seven o’clock transfer effort. Someone is stationed at every corner or intersection of the maze, and everyone can see at least one other person. Anyone seeing the portal open is to immediately point at it with one arm and raise the other; anyone seeing this performed is to echo the motion, pointing toward the instigator. With this chain reaction, a runner with the letter can quickly navigate the correct path, guided by a line of human signposts.

 

The opening drills are promising, but just in case the portal closes within half a minute, they distribute four runners throughout the maze.

 

After all, Dean makes very clear, it is vital they inform their allies as to what’s happened.

 

Someone raises the very valid question as to why Dean doesn’t already know where the portal opens.

 

Dean responds with a hard look, a purposeful sigh, and the words, “You ever try to get ground-based directions from a guy who _flies_?”

 

There’s a smattering of muffled laughter among those gathered, and Dean knows he has his soldiers on board. From there, he sternly instructs all mages not to fire upon any angel they may see. Be it alleged ally or known threat, some angels know how to turn magic back on its wielder.

 

“That’s not a risk I want any of you taking, not without Castiel here to heal you up,” Dean continues, forever drilling in that falsehood. They knew what Cas was, of course they did, and now that the traitor has been exposed, the royal family can trust the rest of their staff with that knowledge. “You see anyone with wings on, you tell them I’m on my way, and you signal same as you would for the portal.”

 

They run the drill a few more times before dispersing until that evening. There’s still more to do: Lucifer to ward against, lies to tell, letters to draft.

 

Plus, Sam’s wedding is still on schedule for the ninth. In the week between engagement night and the actual day, it’s time for the nobles of the city to throw their own parties. Normally, Sam would be going to these as well, bestowing blatant favor via his choice of party for the evening, but both he and Jess have a solid reason to stay in.

 

They’re not the only ones. On duty and in an ill mood, Dean dedicates himself to the letter transfer rather than a less productive distraction. Now’s not the time to throw himself into booze and dancing, no matter how much he needs a drink, no matter how tempted he is to take someone to bed just to spite the dead bastard.

 

In any case, all the parties keep the guests from Sam’s five day birthday gala in town, tiding them over until the wedding. With the rumor mill set ablaze, the bucket-chain to put it out needs to be filled from the correct source. Letting loose the guards to gossip over their important duty tonight, is an important duty in itself.

 

In the meanwhile, Dean works on drafting his own letter. He does it at Sam’s desk. That is to say, he doesn’t do it at Sam’s desk. He sits and stares at paper, ink drying on his pen. He does this a great deal, persisting in inaction until his mother enters the room.

 

Sam doesn’t wake, his arm thrown across Jess’ lap. Sitting atop Sam’s blankets, against the headboard, Jess lowers her book. Dean stands and goes to Mary, who hugs him even harder than his father had.

 

“Not a word about my hair,” she warns him. Like King John, Mary’s missing hair around the crown line, where Cas somehow restored melted metal before pulling the once-ruined crown free. Though the burns have vanished, so has her hair. “Until the ghost-prevention legislation goes through, I can’t get a wig,” she explains, or perhaps complains. “Not without undermining the push for labeling by donors.”

 

Gauging her exhaustion by the degree she’s explaining things he already knows, Dean shrugs in return. “It’ll be a fashion statement by the end of the week.”

 

“That might take longer than a week,” Mary says as they pull apart. She looks to Jess, and Sam, and the unit that is Jess-and-Sam, and Mary smiles. “Besides, it’s rude to be more beautiful than the bride.”

 

“Her Majesty is far too polite, and I hope she shall stop,” Jess says, using the title like an endearment, and Mary crosses over to hug her too. Much like Jess before Sam had woken the first time, Mary doesn’t dare touch him. Vaguely, Dean wonders if he’s going to be the only person left in this family unafraid of bumping shoulders with Sam.

 

Mary sits down on the couch and only then questions how the piece of furniture moved.

 

“Sam’s bed got lonely,” Dean says.

 

“Of course it did,” Mary says before Jess can explain more seriously. “Would it prefer a trundle bed for company? They could have themselves a little party.”

 

“What do you think, Jess?” Dean asks.

 

Mary looks at him with a surprised little smile, but she very nearly beams at the lack of titles when Jess replies, “Your choice, Dean.”

 

Dean catches Jess’ eye more deliberately and sees the quiet confirmation there: they’re purposefully bonding for his mother’s comfort.

 

Jess takes over the conversation while Dean returns to pretending to write his letter. He keeps an ear open, and it’s all stuff that smacks of normalcy. That’s always been his mom’s thing when she’s stressed, but Dean doesn’t know when Jess learned it. King John is the exact opposite way, crunching down on anomalies until either they’re crushed or he’s consumed. It’s why Dean makes such a good buffer between his parents. Maybe Jess will fit in there with him from here on out. She and Mary are already close, enough for Mary to play the wedding role that Jess’ late mother could have.

 

Eventually, Mary leaves Jess to her book and Sam to his sleep. She touches Sam’s blanket-covered knee – the shield is now off the bed – before coming over to Dean at the desk. Standing behind him, she puts a hand on each of his shoulders and kisses the top of his head. Even knowing it’s her, Dean’s hackles fight to rise. He’s too damn jumpy.

 

“Your father wants that done soon,” she says.

 

“So he can look over it, yeah,” Dean says. It’s the reason why he can’t write it. The reason he’s blaming, at least. “What’s Dad sending?”

 

“A list of questions and demands. A summary of last night, with some exceptions,” Mary says. “We’re saying Castiel died thwarting a kidnapping attempt on Sam, but we’re not calling Sam a vessel.”

 

Dean closes his eyes against ink-stained paper and crossed out words. “Seeing how much they’re going to spill themselves, huh.”

 

“There are a lot of direct questions. We need to know how severely wounded Lucifer might be by that blood sigil.”

 

“Where he was blasted to and when he’ll show up next, yeah,” Dean says.

 

“And their own intentions,” Mary adds.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says again. Not _yes_. Just _yeah_.

 

Mary doesn’t even correct him. She squeezes his shoulders instead, only serving to bunch the tension in them tighter. Leaning down, voice lowered for the benefit of more than Sam’s rest, she asks, “What do you want to say?”

 

“I don’t…” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t. I just, I don’t.”

 

Another squeeze of the shoulders. “What do you want them to say?”

 

That’s just it. They don’t have the answers he’s looking for. They might know if Cas set out to play him, but they won’t know how much he actually meant. Was that fuss down in the vault a ploy to get Dean to heap promises on him? To hand over the tablet faster? Or was that guilt bubbling over? Those other angels can’t know that.

 

They’re not Cas.

 

Not that Dean ever actually _knew_ Cas, but.

 

But.

 

“I want to know what was true,” Dean says, throat rough, voice steady.

 

“Then ask them to answer what you already know,” Mary says, as if it really is that simple. She rubs his back where the top of the door frame had dug into it last night. This morning. “Frame it as a way of establishing trust.”

 

“Yeah, all right,” Dean says, and Mary flicks his ear. “Yes,” he corrects.

 

Again, she presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll leave you to it, but you’ll want to hurry.”

 

In the end, Dean writes out his answer sheet first. The questions for tonight are simple, and he labels the envelope in his clearest handwriting. _For Castiel’s siblings_.

 

When King John inspects the letter, he looks at Dean askance. “Innocuous things to ask,” he says.

 

Dean shrugs and says, “I’m starting small.”

  
  


With thirty minutes to go, everyone is in place in the tent-covered hedge maze. Beneath that warded canopy, everyone carries a magelight, the better to point through the dimness under the thick cloth. Dean himself has chosen to act as a runner. He has a copy of his father’s letter and his own envelope inside the first. The archangel blade rides proudly at his hip. He positions himself by the covered entrance.

 

The tent shifts against the hedges. A few birds didn’t escape when it enclosed the maze, and they begin to complain in harsh, trilling cries. Standing next to Jo and her magelight, Dean stretches his legs. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t talk to her, and she doesn’t try to engage him. She only stands there and knows, privy to the truth of so many lies.

 

An agony of time later, a cry goes up. It travels in a quick relay of motion, and Dean shoots off down the route he knows best. After all their preparation, the reality is jarringly easy. Dean barrels down the dead end closest to the entrance, and there it is. Shining and golden and unfurling, like sand turned into smoke. He wastes no time in tossing the letters through, a small stone inside lending enough weight to make his aim true.

 

The letters vanish. Dean hadn’t been entirely sure they would, but they do. The portal remains for the time it takes for the clock tower to stop tolling the hour, and it dissipates without anyone or anything coming back through.

 

Even after the final wisp of light vanishes, Dean waits, squinting into the dark, hand on his weapon’s hilt. Even then, nothing.

 

They mark the area and recall everyone to the front of the maze. Dean collects the unsent copies of the letters. They exit and wait. Some are dismissed. Some remain anyway. Bobby stands at Dean’s side, then at King John’s, then at Dean’s again. Jo comes over and they continue to not talk. Victor comes over and proves that even a silence can shift in tone. No one can manage respectful suspicion quite like Victor.

 

Maybe King John is right, and Dean does confide in his knights too much. Like so much else, it’s too late to fix. In this case, at least, the repercussions aren’t fatal. Neither Victor nor Jo will buy the story they’re selling, but they won’t contradict it either.

 

Over the next few hours, enough people come up to him to offer their condolences that Dean’s not sure who started it. Somebody who thinks what he had with Cas was real, maybe. Somebody he needs to punch in the face, definitely. But unwanted or not, the condolences come, and Dean quietly thanks his supporters in the hopes that each time will be the last.

 

His father hears. His father watches. And still people seek to console Dean over Cas.

 

Finally, Jo, Bobby and Victor engage Dean in enough deliberately closed off conversation that no one else approaches. Apparently, Rufus is already trying to put together a contraption to simulate combat against an angel, because they’re going to need to know how to fight something with a human shape and shielding wings. Though Rufus might have enough of the basic shape for a sparring dummy, the motions are still unknown.

 

In explaining them, Dean relives the fight yet again. He speaks of Cas’ tactics. He demonstrates Cas’ motions. He instructs Jo how to move her arms before standing behind her and mimicking Cas’ wings with his arms, saying things like, “This, but longer.”

 

Once he does that, it’s more than clear that everyone is listening in. Yet again, he’s made himself into a spectacle. Dean looks to his father and King John looks back evenly, and so Dean continues, this time intentionally. He talks about Cas the way he shouldn’t let himself, the way he would if they were really allies who knew and trusted each other. He talks about Cas holding his own against Lucifer, how Lucifer was bleeding brighter right up until the moment Dean arrived and Cas protected him at the expense of his own wing. He fixates on the way Cas stood over Sam, and he plays up all the angles.

 

Seraph Castiel faced down Archangel Lucifer. He stood against the man who’d slain his childhood mentor, Archangel Michael, and given Dean that fallen mentor’s blade before he himself fell. A blade that could slay any angel, and Castiel bestowed it upon Dean before he sacrificed himself.

 

For every guard who keeps quiet out of loyalty and respect, five or ten more will tell their families. Families will tell friends who will tell strangers who will gossip across the country, across borders. The wave is only just begun, but Dean is already drowning.

 

Dean says his part all the same, and when he finishes, King John comes to stand by him and sets a hand on his shoulder. They stand there together like they both respected Cas the same, like King John didn’t distrust him as a mere human, like Dean isn’t ready to scream and claw out of his own skin.

 

Midnight can’t come soon enough, but it does, eventually, come. They’re ready for it in their warded coats, gathered in the maze. The portal’s light gathers and shines. An envelope spits out, and the portal vanishes before the clock tower tolls twice, let alone the full twelve times.

 

Dean retrieves the envelope, which is the exact same one he’d thrown through himself. The weight is different, the rock removed. The seal has been broken and melted back into place. Frowning more deeply with every step, Dean dutifully returns this reply to his father. King John thanks everyone gathered for their diligence and bids them return to their typical duties or leisure, whichever is appropriate at this time of night.

 

They head inside the castle proper, King John and Bobby. Dean follows, and Jo trails him, a stubborn set to her jaw that Dean’s too tired to argue against. Once inside, even King John accepts Jo’s presence. In knowing Sam’s second talent, she knows Lucifer’s true motive. In knowing Dean and knowing Dean well, she knows Castiel’s true role. Either out of trust toward her or to the memory of her late father, King John permits her to stay, to a point. She stands guard outside the door, the only person permitted to remain within eavesdropping range.

 

It isn’t often Dean enters his parents’ chambers, but that is the meeting place of the night. Mary already waits for them in the sitting room, a line of hot drinks on the low table and not a servant in sight. Midnight in early May is still chilly, and Dean becomes aware of his cold hands for the first time in hours.

 

Rather than sitting next to Mary on their couch, King John takes the letter to a side table and begins to pull out spell ingredients from drawers. Understanding his intent, Dean joins him. The spell is a simple one, crafted for even the use of the talentless, and it crackles oddly over the paper.

 

“Traces of magic inside,” Dean reports for Bobby and Mary’s benefit. “Doesn’t look like a spell, though, more like a magic item.”

 

“More like magic ink,” King John corrects, indicating the pattern of lines shining through the paper.

 

They join Mary and Bobby. Dean picks back up his tea to better warm his hands. King John breaks the seal and removes the paper inside.

 

Frowning, Dean scoots to perch at the edge of his seat. “Is that…?”

 

“Blood,” Bobby confirms.

 

“Why would angels write in blood?” Mary asks Dean, who has become the assumed expert through sheer proximity.

 

Dean shakes his head, having no idea. Having maybe the hint of an idea. He stoppers his mouth with hot bitterness, no trace of honey in his tea.

 

“That explains where the magic’s coming from,” Bobby says. “Magic creature, magic blood.”

 

“Dad, is that written on your letter?”

 

King John nods, eyes already scanning the pages. He holds them up as he reads, and Dean can see the original missive on the back, set in the normalcy of ink. The angel’s reply is made across the entirety of the other side.

 

“Archangel Raphael thanks us for the discovery of Lucifer’s spy, and alerts us that we are in possession of stolen property best returned to them,” King John summarizes. “He offers nothing concrete in return.”

 

“He sent us some angel’s blood,” Bobby says. “Could be intimidation, could be a show of power. Could even be an offer, if the blood can be used against them.”

 

“He also guesses that Lucifer is currently unconscious,” King John continues. “Depending on how close Castiel was to him, Lucifer could be unconscious for days or months, but no longer than half a year. He would have been sent directly away from the sigil, and the distance between the casting site and the landing site will show the severity of the spell. Archangel Raphael offers their aid in destroying Lucifer as ‘a gesture of good will’ but reminds us that their stolen property must be returned first.”

 

“So they really do need that tablet to break themselves out,” Dean concludes.

 

The rest of the letter is much the same: a long, staunch refusal to admit any wrongdoing. In several spots, they explain why they are free from any wrongdoing without so much as acknowledging the accusation. It concludes with a request to return Seraph Castiel’s body to them for proper funeral rites.

 

“They’ll think we’re keeping him prisoner when we can’t return the body,” Mary predicts.

 

“If they know so much about that blood sigil Castiel used, they have to know his body is missing,” Bobby adds, slow and musing. “That’ll be a pretense to claim we’re the ones who won’t cooperate.”

 

“So if Lucifer got blasted one way from the sigil, Castiel went the other way,” Dean reasons. “Tomorrow morning, we grab a compass, head up to the tower, and see what’s what before sending out search parties. Anyone who sees an unconscious man with wings isn’t going to keep their mouth shut about it. If Castiel’s wings did burn off when he… after, then we’re still talking about a body with a sigil carved into it. Unless they both landed in the middle of the woods somewhere, someone’s bound to spot them.”

 

“Everyone in the maze tonight already has a warded jacket,” Bobby says. “They can be the first search parties, easy enough.”

 

“We find Lucifer and ward him securely before he wakes,” King John decides for the kingdom, for the world. He turns to his wife. “Mary.”

 

“I’ve written down as much of the immediate forecast as I can scry from here,” Mary replies. “If demons start swarming in that range, we’ll know the omens for what they are.”

 

King John nods in approval, but Mary continues.

 

“Once we know which direction Lucifer was blown in, I’m heading that way,” she says.

 

“No,” John says immediately.

 

“If he fell outside my range–”

 

“I don’t care,” John says.

 

“You should,” Mary tells him. “I don’t care if he is an archangel. He hurt my boys, and I am going to find him.”

 

“We’ll discuss this later,” John says. “Dean, here.” And he hands Dean an envelope in a clear method of distraction.

 

For Dean, at least, it works immediately. The seal is already broken, and the words _For Prince Dean_ have been added in blood beneath _For Castiel’s siblings_. The envelope itself is coming apart at the seams, and when Dean opens it, the cause immediately becomes clear: the inside of the envelope was used as a second sheet of paper.

 

The first part of the reply is on the back of Dean’s letter. His condolences. His questions. The answering handwriting is less like a man’s or a woman’s, and more like a stone mason’s.

 

To _What are the names of his siblings, alive and dead?_ they answered _We are Seraphim Hannah and Balthazar. Our fallen siblings are Uriel and Seraph Anna._

 

Dean had written, _He learned something here he said he would teach you. Do you know what it was?_

 

They answered, _He taught us to dance._

 

Dead had written, _Whose belt was he wearing?_

 

She answered, _Mine, Hannah’s._

 

Dean had written, _Whose idea were the ribbons?_

 

The confusing answer, in a different handwriting: _I, Balthazar, did you that favor._ Below this, in the original hand: _It was only in jest, to embarrass him._

 

The truest answer is the flurry of questions they ask in return. Was Castiel able to fly before he met his end? Did Castiel leave a message for them? How did Castiel learn of Uriel’s betrayal? These, and more.

 

It is a long list of questions to be written in blood, and the handwriting grows cramped as it extends onto the inside of the envelope. The use of space was economical to begin with, and the legibility fades slightly. Blood doesn’t set as the best ink, forcing the letters larger.

 

Dean looks at the letters. At reused paper and words set in blood. He looks at these, and all he sees is the uncertain look in Cas’ eyes as, down in the vault, he reached furtive fingers toward more paper. Cas’ uncomprehending stare when Dean promised he was welcome to use as much as he wanted.

 

He’d said they couldn’t afford paper. He’d said…

 

“They don’t have ink or paper,” Dean says, first to himself, then to the room. “They don’t have anything.”

 

The paper. His clothes, well-preserved but old, and borrowed besides. The utter lack of adornment.

 

That much was _true_.

 

“Dean?” Mary asks.

 

“Does this look like what someone does when they have paper?” Dean asks, gesturing wide. “You’d think they’d at least want to keep Dad’s letter. Sending mine back, fine, but Dad’s? That’s bad record-keeping, especially for people who carve shit into stone.”

 

“Could’ve carved a copy over there,” Bobby points out, but he sounds doubtful.

 

“What else does it say?” King John asks.

 

“It’s about twenty variations on ‘how did he die’,” Dean answers, skimming back down the painful list until the questions stop. He reads on and has to stop. “And…” He clears his throat and refuses to blink. He’s got nothing that needs blinking back. “They’re asking for his body back, too.”

 

Both John and Mary hold out their hands for the letter. Dean hands it to Mary, ostensibly because she’s closer. They read. Mary’s mouth tightens into a thin line. King John’s eyes harden before he orders, “Don’t let this sway you.”

 

“Of course not,” Dean answers. He holds out his hand and Mary passes him back the letter and reused envelope. “I should get to bed. Got an archangel to track down in the morning.”

 

Mary rises. “I’ll walk with you.”

 

“Mom.”

 

“I’ll walk with you,” she repeats.

 

Folding his letter up, Dean bids Bobby and King John goodnight. Outside the door, he flinches a smile at Jo, who nods back. She stays in place, as she must, but Dean would take her over Mary right now.

 

As they take the very short walk to Dean’s room, Mary asks, “Have you been back in since this afternoon?”

 

Distantly, Dean knows he changed clothes and showered at some point today. He has no idea when. “Think it was before lunch,” he says, as if he knows whether he ate lunch today. He might have. He’s not sure.

 

Mary nods, relief painting her features a slightly deeper color than stricken pale. “Good,” she says. “I didn’t want you to be surprised.”

 

Dean stops walking. Two steps later, Mary also stops. She turns back to him, more resignation than fear in her face.

 

“What’s in my room?” Dean asks, exhausted beyond all measure.

 

“A servant found your mask and his in the courtyard,” Mary says. “Both of them are on your desk.”

 

Dean is holding a letter written in the blood of a dead man’s siblings. He is standing in the hallway of the royal apartments, staring at his mother, holding a letter written in angel blood.

 

“Do you want me to take it away?” Mary asks.

 

Wordlessly, Dean picks up his pace back to his rooms. He enters without even noticing who’s on guard duty outside his door tonight, just another stupid, idiotic failing, but he can’t stop. He can’t stop messing up. His mother follows him in, closes the door, and follows him farther, all the way into his bedroom.

 

The masks are there, silver horns next to jet black feathers.

 

Dean turns around to leave, but Mary’s in his way and she misunderstands. Or maybe she knows and out-stubborns him anyway, holding him tight until the need to flee lessens. He holds her back, a strong clench of the arms that can’t be as painful as the rest of him. As the rest of everything.

 

“Mom, I,” he starts to say, tries to say, and then he’s crying.

 

“I know,” she says, even though she doesn’t. “I know,” she keeps saying, petting his hair, tacit permission for him to bury his face in her shoulder.

 

She holds him and holds him and holds him. When he tries to pull back, she holds him even tighter.

 

“I need to put this down,” Dean says, not sure how much he can crumple the letter before the blood flakes off. She lets go of him then, and Dean promptly puts his foot in it, shoving at the tension with the poor joke of, “How much of that hug was Sammy’s?”

 

Mary wipes at her own eyes before she sighs. “If I couldn’t hold either of my boys, I don’t know what I would do,” she says honestly, too honestly.

 

“Sam’s gonna be fine,” Dean says, and he puts the letter next to Cas’ mask. The feathers gleam in the magelight, and Dean doesn’t touch them.

 

“There’s a trundle bed in his room now,” Mary says.

 

“He and Jess aren’t meant to be sharing a bed yet,” Dean agrees, like that’s what she’s talking about. “Good compromise.”

 

In a moment of extreme hypocrisy, Mary rolls her eyes the exact way Dean and Sam—but mostly Sam—aren’t meant to do in public. “They could use a chaperon, if you’re up for it.” She takes him by the wrist and draws him away from the desk. “I’ll tell Bobby where you are. For tomorrow.”

 

Compass measurements in the observatory, right. Because Dean’s the only one who knows where Lucifer was standing. Where Cas was slumped, legs sprawled, wings ruined.

 

“Give me a minute,” Dean says.

 

“All right,” Mary says. “Just don’t stay in here alone tonight.”

 

“I’ll be looking out for Sam, don’t you worry,” Dean says.

 

She gives him that look she gives their dad too often, the one where she’s picking her battles. She hugs him again, and this time, he hugs her back too long.

 

“Go up to the tower with Bobby early tomorrow,” Mary tells him when she pulls away. “It’s going to rain.”

 

As she heads out, he makes a show of going for his sleeping clothes. He takes clothes for tomorrow and adds them to the small pile. Once he hears the door to the hall close, he forces himself to brave the desk.

 

Entirely aware that he’s punishing himself, entirely aware that he deserves it, he rereads the last of the letter.

 

_Having only each other left, we ask you together: return him to us. Send his body back. Let the ash of his wings lie where it fell. Let it blow away and allow him to fly his last. If the ash fell upon a human’s skin or clothing, we ask that human to wear it until it falls, and not to wash it away._

 

_If his blade did not die with him, keep it. Our arms are full, and with the way Castiel spoke of you, it would have become yours in due time._

 

_If you would honor his passing, honor his mission. Return him with the tablet, or both of our brothers will have died traitors in Archangel Raphael’s eyes._

 

_They who share his light,_

_Seraphim Hannah and Balthazar_

 

For all the first paragraph is obviously sincere, Dean knows a guilt trip when he sees it. He’s not sure what they mean about their arms being full, but he’s certain the bit about Cas’ blade is bullshit. Even just telling Dean that Cas would have pledged his sword to him is a bribe.

 

Touching the hilt of Michael’s sword, Dean continues to reread the letter. For the more innocuous questions, he formulates answers. Sitting, staring at blood-marked paper, he doesn’t write, merely thinks. His mind turns over with his stomach, and he blames the taste in his mouth on bitter tea.

 

Watching him with empty eyes, Cas’ mask sits on his desk. Dean stares back.

 

Much too long later, he slams his chair back. He stands. He leaves. He stops, returns for his clothing, and leaves again.

 

The next time he stands still, he’s in Sam’s sitting room. He stops to breathe. He stops to look calm. Clothing in a bundle under his arm, he knocks on the bedroom door. It’s after one in the morning, maybe closer to two, but Jess calls him in by name anyway, awake between first and second sleep.

 

“Hey,” he says, entering, wondering what’s so distinct about his knock. Or, maybe, of the few people allowed past the guard at the door, Dean’s the only one likely to show, this time of night. He doesn’t ask.

 

“He sat up on his own earlier,” Jess tells him from the trundle bed. She gets up and moves onto the bed. Immediately, Sam shifts, but he doesn’t manage to roll over. When she tucks herself up behind him, Sam settles down, even with the blanket barrier.

 

“Waiting for your chaperon, huh?” Dean asks. Jess smiles at him over her shoulder, still with more fear than joy.

 

Dean changes clothing in the bathroom. When he slides the sheathed archangel blade beneath the trundle bed pillow, he expects to get a whiff of that flowery perfume or shampoo Jess uses, but all he smells is clean linens. He flips over the pillow anyway before settling down for the night.

 

They lie there, breathing, listening to Sam breathe.

 

“They want Cas’ body back,” Dean says into the dark. “His siblings.” Even through the pillow, the blade is hard against the back of his head. “They’re who he said they were. Y’know, not human, but. He never actually specified.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jess says, quiet sounds to fill the air.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and they go to sleep.

  
  


“He was in front of you here,” Bobby says, pointing.

 

Dean nods, looking down. He presses his back against the observatory tower door, against the sigil now painted over his botched carving. “A little bit more forward. Yeah. I think that’s where his feet were.”

 

Bobby leans down and marks the spot with chalk. He turns around and looks at the broken stone slabs behind him. There are three main cracks, two side by side, the third a few feet away. With the wreckage of the glass and the telescopes removed, those broken stones are all that remain from the fight. In preparation for an entirely new glass dome, even the remains of the old one have already been stripped away. Probably couldn’t risk having broken glass falling into the courtyard below.

 

If anything had remained of either one of the angels after Cas’ spell, Dean and Bobby wouldn’t need to be sketching out their best guesses up here. Blood would have done the trick, once kept in a vial, or maybe a feather or two; anything intrinsic to the body will work for one of Victor’s tracking spells. But whatever blasted them away, blasted _all_ of them away, and so estimating the direction of that blast is all they have to go on.

 

“What made this?” Bobby asks, pointing to the broken stone slabs and eyeing Dean more warily than he ought. “Hard landing?”

 

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. “He was, uh. He got forced down. To his knees. There.”

 

Bobby looks, craning his head as he pieces together the positions. “And a blow went through him hard enough to crack the stone under him.” When Dean says nothing, Bobby points to the third break. “He get to kneeling there, too? The one knee, by the looks of it.”

 

“That was his head,” Dean says, and Bobby looks to him with a face like grief’s exasperated cousin.

 

“Still not as hard as yours,” Bobby says after that one moment of gaping. “So where was he when he set off that spell?”

 

Leaning against the door, Dean tries to picture it. The breeze doesn’t bite. The sun shines fitfully against the growing clouds. The air still smells the same, the threat of rain where there’s so much more to threaten.

 

“He was on the floor,” Dean says. He swallows and points. He directs Bobby closer, and then slightly to the side. “Yeah, I’d say his chest was around there.”

 

Bobby marks this estimate down in chalk before pulling out a compass. He takes his time while he takes his notes. Downstairs, they’ll extrapolate from the directions. Draw out a pair of long triangles on a map, one for Lucifer and one for Cas’ body. The search will begin, and people who aren’t Dean will leave to clean up Dean’s mistake.

 

Once Bobby finishes, he stands, groaning at his own knees. “Give me a hand here?”

 

Dean gives him a hand and immediately discovers that groaning as the ploy it was. Bobby tugs him in tight. Bobby holds him hard.

 

“I proposed to a security breach,” Dean says.

 

“Fool thing to do, but I ain’t telling,” Bobby answers. He pulls back but claps Dean on the shoulder. “Sam and Jo’ll keep their mouths shut, too.”

 

“Servants heard me,” Dean says. “Some of the musicians, too.”

 

Bobby sighs, too light a huff compared to the berating Dean deserves. “They don’t know he was a security breach.”

 

“Dad knows,” Dean says. “And they’ll talk. It’ll… I think it was already circulating last night.” All the condolences. All those people waiting for him to break, looking at each other every time he said Cas’ name.

 

Bobby looks at him with Sam levels of tiredness. “Well,” he says, “what’d he say?”

 

“Dad?” Dean asks.

 

“No, idjit, your security breach fiance,” Bobby corrects. “He break and tell you the truth at all?”

 

Dean shrugs, hands deep in his pockets. “He figured out Nick was Lucifer, stole my sword, and ran off. So… Yes?”

 

“You let him steal your sword?”

 

“I was pissed off,” Dean says, which is no excuse.

 

Giving him the look to end all looks, Bobby makes a grab for the angel blade.

 

Dean blocks him, easy.

 

“At least you learn from your mistakes,” Bobby says. He looks back over his shoulder, taking in the cracks and indents Cas left. “Besides, I get the feeling he’d have had it off you even if you were paying attention.”

 

If that’s meant to make Dean feel any better, it doesn’t work. Dean’s been physically outmatched enough that it doesn’t bruise his ego, not anymore. But being outmatched and never even realizing? Seeing only a bookish man with a rough past? Cas had been someone Dean could have protected, someone who could have _needed_ Dean to protect him.

 

Seraph Castiel is someone else entirely. Was someone else. Some _thing_ else.

 

“Good thing you never took the tablet out of that box for him,” Bobby adds, another gruff attempt to bolster Dean.

 

Except.

 

“I did,” Dean says.

 

Bobby stares at him. “You what?”

 

“He could have had it off me,” Dean realizes. “Right then.”

 

“Would have blown his cover,” Bobby says.

 

“The tablet’s the only thing they’re asking for,” Dean says. “Besides, uh, besides his body back, that’s the one thing. He could have grabbed it, and I wouldn’t have known how to stop him.” If Cas had used an ounce of sense, he’d never have told Dean about the angel warding. He shouldn’t have explained the blade, either. There’s so much Cas shouldn’t have told him, so many things it makes no sense for Cas to have told him.

 

The idiot even used his own damn name. Who does that?

 

“He did talk you into sending it over,” Bobby points out. “Didn’t exactly need to use force at that point.”

 

“Maybe,” Dean says.

 

They leave the discussion on the broken tower, and as they close the warded door behind them, it begins to rain.

  
  


Parliament and King John jointly draft a reply by six o’clock. King John reviews Dean’s answering letter as well, and he censors only two of Dean’s responses to Hannah and Balthazar’s questions.

 

The drive of Dean’s questions tonight are in line with King John’s, and it’s hoped that the supposedly more “open” line of communication between Dean and the two seraphim will yield the answers Archangel Raphael won’t.

 

This time, they also send a writing kit. It doesn’t compare to the one Dean had planned to give to Cas, but then, it doesn’t need to.

 

In return, Dean receives a letter written in ink, in Hannah’s hand. Tonight, she skips straight to the point.

 

_If Castiel used the sigil you described, his body should be there. The angel activating that sigil should be unaffected. This has always been the case when the sigil is drawn on another surface. Castiel cutting it into himself may have negated that protection, or increased the power of the sigil past the point of that protection._

 

_To our knowledge, no one else has ever done as Castiel has. We are as without a frame of reference as you are. Please, find him. Archangel Raphael will send no representative until we can see my brother is dead and not merely your prisoner. No matter what condition you find him in, return him to us._

 

Balthazar has a few choice words after that, all of them dripping with both aggression and sarcasm. Indignation carries Dean through before the pain of truth can bite too deeply.

 

After begrudgingly showing it to his father, he puts the letter away with the first. He hides them in his desk drawer. Atop the desk, Cas’ mask watches over them.

 

Tonight, Dean touches it. The sleek feathers. The worn strap, made of a bootlace. The mask’s structure is more dependent upon the feathers themselves than the cloth holding them together. He turns it over and over in his hands until he’s sure.

 

He restrains himself from running out into the night. It can wait until morning, until it’s light out.

 

Putting the mask down, forcing himself to put the mask down, he gathers up his clothes. He spends the third night in a row in his little brother’s bedroom, and this time when Dean enters, Sam wakes up.

 

“Hey,” Sam says, Jess already in bed with him. The trundle bed has still been left out, though.

 

“You know you’re not supposed to be doing that yet, right?” Dean whispers, closing the door behind him.

 

“You know we’re getting married in five days, right?” Sam counters.

 

“You know you’re loud?” Jess groans, shoving her head under a pillow. Then she lifts back up the pillow to say, “And if Dean’s back, it’s in four days. It’s after midnight.”

 

Dean changes in the bathroom while they mutter to each other about calendars and wedding plans. When he settles down into the trundle, he interrupts them with the good news.

 

“I have Cas’ mask, and I’m pretty sure he made it with his own feathers.”

 

Jess rolls over to frown at Dean through the dark, but Sam sits up. He promptly sways and lies back down, but the speed of the motion is promising.

 

“You can use a tracking spell,” Sam says.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, heart pounding while he lies still, looking up at the ceiling. “Gonna grab Victor in the morning, have him haul out his specialty.”

 

When it comes down to it, sympathetic magic is tricky stuff. Most magic not tied to a mage’s innate gifts is. Sure, there are spell formulas that are easy enough to follow, but tracking spells are, by their very nature, personalized. Ungifted or not, Victor’s found people with blood and hair before. There was a memorable time with a child’s milk teeth, and an even worse time with a man’s entire severed fingernail. By group consensus, nobody talks about that time with the intestines.

 

Feathers will be new.

  
  


“I’ve done feathers before,” Victor surprises him by saying. They’re in the knights’ communal space that has long since become Ash’s artificing studio, though this early in the day, Ash is nowhere to be seen. “Chicken thieves. Different species here, but it should be the same principle. What are the parameters?”

 

“Dead angel,” Dean says, trying to shrug.

 

“Besides that, Prince,” Victor says.

 

“Dead angel to the north-northeast,” Dean says.

 

“So you don’t know his age or weight,” Victor concludes.

 

“At least seven hundred years,” Dean says, a number he’s still trying not to think about. “And light enough to fly.”

 

A headache visibly pinches Victor, and he pinches it back at the bridge of his nose. “That’s a place to start.”

 

“I’ll ask that tonight,” Dean says. “Don’t know how much lighter he’ll be without the wings.”

 

“Without the wings,” Victor echoes.

 

“They burn off when an angel dies,” Dean reminds him tersely, because this is supposed to be common knowledge. It’s been three days since Cas died.

 

“No, I know,” Victor says, eyes on the mask. “I’m wondering if that will change the tracking spell at all.”

 

“We’ve followed a vial of spilled blood to an exsanguinated body more than once,” Dean says.

 

“True, but tracing hair back to a bald man is surprisingly difficult.” Victor keeps on frowning, not that Dean expected anything different. “Feathers are closer to hair.”

 

“Try anyway,” Dean orders.

 

Victor sighs without sighing. “Would you prefer to watch, Highness, or should I find you when I get the spell to take?”

 

“I’ll watch,” Dean says.

 

To Victor’s credit, he’s at it for nearly three hours before he runs out of ideas.

 

“If I narrow the parameters for you,” Dean asks, “can you do it?”

 

Victor studies the diagrams and orderly mess of spell ingredients he’s left sprawling across the worktables. “Even once I know the exact age, I don’t know how to compensate for it,” Victor admits. “I’ve never had to track something that old.”

 

“Then _practice_ ,” Dean snaps with no idea how Victor could.

 

“Yeah, we got trees,” Ash says from the doorway. He salutes, the motion only highlighting the sleeveless irregularity that is his so-called uniform. He claims the sleeves only get bunched up under his protective crafting gauntlets, but everyone knows that’s just an excuse. “Mornin’, Highness.”

 

“Ash, whatever Victor needs, you get him,” Dean commands.

 

“Yes, sir,” Ash says with another salute. “Leaves from some really old trees, coming right up.”

 

Dean looks to Victor. Victor tilts his head side to side, weighing, before he nods.

 

“Every question you could possibly need to ask, I need written down and in my hand before five o’clock,” Dean instructs.

 

“You’ll have it, Prince,” Victor promises.

 

Ash slouches off the door frame and into the work space proper. “I have a question, my liege,” he says, the only person to ever make that form of address sound like a casual nickname. “Wanted to confirm some of the word on the streets.”

 

Dean holds back a groan. “Yeah?”

 

“Word is,” Ash says, “you were getting married off to our angel allies. People want to know if you’re gonna marry a different angel now.”

 

Dean’s body goes cold. He looks at only Ash, and not at Victor. “Where’d that rumor come from?”

 

Ash shrugs, his faux-mage haircut slipping back over his shoulders. Ungifted in the front, magic in the back, that’s always been the way of things with Ash, the most mage-like ungifted man Dean’s ever met. “Something about the Knight Prince falling head over heels for this guy who turns out to be an angel emissary. People are putting two and two together and patting themselves on the back for being so clever.”

 

It’s not spread yet, then. Dean’s aborted attempt at a proposal. Dean losing his temper at Cas’ complete refusal to stay on topic. He’s almost sure he yelled about proposing, and in front of an audience of musicians and servants. The servants, they _might_ be able to scare into silence, but the musicians have probably spent the last two nights performing at the parties of other nobility. Employment at the castle is a serious recommendation for any group; there isn’t a chance someone hadn’t snatched them up for the week of festivities until Sam’s wedding.

 

Really, it’s only a matter of time. Even bad gossip is worth its weight in gold, and for entertainers, that could easily be literal.

 

“So,” Ash says with the look of someone who already knows. “There any truth to that?”

 

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Dean answers, and his voice fucking breaks.

 

Ash opens his mouth, but Victor shoots him a stern enough look that Ash satisfies himself with another shrug. “Whatever you say, my liege.”

 

“What else are they saying?” Dean makes himself ask.

 

“The Royal Hospital is staffed by monsters,” Ash begins, ticking off his fingers. “The Mage Prince has some kind of special royal magic that can heal angels. That really was _the_ Lucifer. That _wasn’t_ Lucifer. Lucifer cast some spell over the Mage Prince, first to get him to kiss him, then to put him in an enchanted sleep. That kind of thing.”

 

Dean shakes his head, even while he takes note. “About Cas. Castiel.”

 

“Mostly that he led the charge against Lucifer,” Ash says. “He flew over a bunch of people’s heads, right? Got inside the throne room while the crowds were pushing the rest of you back. Sounds like a lot of the guards were confused and tried to fire on him too, but you stopped them.”

 

Dean remembers running. Anger and numbness and then running. He remembers guards moving to intercept Cas, no doubt alarmed at a man fleeing from the prince and carrying a live blade. He remembers shouting at them not to hurt Cas.

 

He remembers the rug sliding beneath Cas’ feet as they rounded a corner. Remembers the first of those great black wings ripping free of the ribbons, remembers thinking it a costume prop falling off in Cas’ panic.

 

And then both wings spread wide.

 

“I tried,” Dean says, shaking himself back to the present. “It was, uh. Pretty chaotic. Should have told more people about Cas, I guess, but we didn’t know the spy was on their side then, not ours. Thought we only had a demon threat to worry about.” He shuts his mouth before he can say more.

 

“That something you want shared?” Ash asks.

 

Dean nods. It’s the official story, and the more people who repeat it, the less he has to.

 

Victor watches him and says nothing.

 

Dean clears his throat and pushes off from the work table. “I’ll leave you to it. Need that list of questions by five, Victor.”

 

“By five, Prince,” Victor confirms, keeping his doubts to himself, right where they belong.

  
  


Naturally, the rumor of the political marriage has reached Parliament, and therefore King John. Dean counts himself lucky not to be blindsided when he hands off his letter with all of Victor’s technical questions. By five, neither Victor nor Ash had gotten the tracking spell to take hold on the mask, and Dean’s given them permission to pull in whatever additional resources they need.

 

The moment Dean is alone with his father, he is cornered in his own rooms. Forewarned, he turns the moment into his own ambush.

 

“When were you going to tell me you’re marrying me off to some random angel?” Dean demands. “You tell Mom yet? She can’t have agreed to this.”

 

King John’s face shifts, and though he rebukes Dean for his insubordination, he takes Dean’s rage at face value.

 

He should. Dean’s got more than enough rage to be sincere about it.

 

“You’re not marrying anyone,” King John tells him, stepping in close to reassure, not to threaten. He sets a hand on Dean’s shoulder, as heavy and uncomfortable as a winter blanket in summer. “There are rumors to the contrary, but these can be dealt with easily enough.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, because this is what his father wants to hear and conversations don’t end until King John is satisfied.

 

Between the two of them, they agree that Dean’s behavior during Sam’s party had been the main cause of the assumption. As humiliating conversations go, Dean tells himself he’s had worse, his mind devoid of examples. King John does ask if there is any weight to the eyewitnesses who claim they heard Dean propose in the courtyard. Prepared, Dean commits a minor act of treason, if any act of treason can be said to be minor.

 

He lies to his father.

 

“The only thing I said about proposing was that I wasn’t,” Dean says, frowning. “I was trying to get him to pin down some details, y’know? How frequently he could afford to write, when I could visit him at the university, that kind of thing. But he got cagey about it, like I was asking too much, so I, uh. Oh.” He moves his eyes from one side to another, the way people do when they’re remembering. “I yelled at him. Said it wasn’t like I was proposing, but, uh.”

 

“You sound sarcastic when you’re angry,” King John says, resigned.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and there it is, the lie. It’s a good lie, plausible, and he thinks he told it well. “Think I only started yelling toward the end, too. That’s probably the only part anyone heard, about proposing.”

 

“I need you in better control of your emotions,” King John commands. “The kingdom needs that from you.”

 

“I know,” Dean says. “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

And he is.

 

He really is.

 

“We’re going to handle this,” King John replies in lieu of accepting Dean’s apology. “No more mistakes from you, do you understand?”

 

“I understand, sir.”

 

King John studies him far too long before he nods. They review Dean’s letter, make awkward small talk about Victor’s tracking spells, and get ready to send it off.

  
  


“Anyone want to guess the age gap?” Dean asks upon entering Sam’s sitting room. It’s closing in on one o’clock in the morning, but Sam’s waking up between first and second sleep fairly easily now. It’s a good sign. Four days since Cas died, now, and three left until the wedding. Sam’s gotta be back on his feet by then, or the whole kingdom will shit itself worrying.

 

Actually seated upright in an armchair, Sam looks up from the battery of reports spread across his lap. Drooping on the couch opposite, Jess pushes herself up and brushes her hair out of her eyes.

 

“What gap?” Jess asks.

 

“Cas and Dean,” Sam explains. “Sir Victor needs an estimate on Castiel’s age to personalize the tracking spell to his feathers.” To Dean, Sam asks, “Those were his feathers, right? On the mask.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Hannah confirmed.” He sits down heavily next to Jess and pulls a flask out of his jacket. “So, your guesses.”

 

“If he knew Archangel Michael, he has to be at least seven hundred,” Sam pieces together, oblivious as to how his casual use of the present tense stabs Dean in the gut. “I’m going to say eight hundred.”

 

“A thousand,” Jess says. When they look at her for her reasoning, she simply says, “I like round numbers.”

 

Dean points to her with the flask before he drinks. “You’re winning.”

 

“Two thousand,” Sam says.

 

“She’s still winning,” Dean says.

 

“Just tell us,” Jess says.

 

Dean rolls the whiskey burn around in his mouth a little longer before swallowing. “One thousand, two hundred thirty-eight.”

 

There is a long pause before Sam says, “Is that the gap, or…?”

 

“His age,” Dean says, an insignificant twenty-nine year old speck. “Yeah.”

 

“He was born before there were demons,” Sam says. “Wow.”

 

“Hatched,” Dean corrects. “Dude fucking hatched from a magic egg with four other angels.”

 

Sam and Jess stare at him.

 

“Pretty much my reaction, too,” Dean says.

 

After an even longer pause, Jess asks, “Who laid the egg?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the bad news,” Dean says. “Apparently, they just sorta cluster way up in the mountains down south. Something about the rocks and altitude makes the grace bunch up down there.”

 

“In the Kingdom of Heaven?” Sam asks.

 

Dean nods, using the interruption to drink. “Yeah, that’s where it is. Unreachable on foot, but very much flight accessible.” He shoots Sam a significant look, but it’s Jess who catches on first.

 

“Are you saying Lucifer could start literally raising an army?” Jess asks.

 

“Whoever wakes them up gets parenting dibs, sounds like,” Dean says. “So the good news is, they won’t hatch on their own. No third angel faction wandering around.”

 

“And the other angels haven’t claimed them… why?” Sam wonders.

 

“There’s gotta be more limitations to their portal than they’ve said,” Dean says. “Only thing that makes sense. They’re still refusing to send anyone else through until they get Cas’ body, even with the threat to the eggs.”

 

“You’re thinking maybe they can’t,” Sam says, reading him well.

 

Dean nods. “When he told me where the portal was and when it opens, he asked me to send his body back. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason he told me. And it was almost midnight, too. You’d think he could have flown to it, jumped through, and come back with reinforcements. Lucifer would have been harder to track after the delay, but that’s what numbers are for.”

 

“So if we’re going to get any help against Lucifer, we really do need to send them the tablet,” Sam says.

 

“But we should have negotiations in person beforehand,” Jess says.

 

“It all comes back to Cas,” Sam says. To Dean, he asks, “Did they send any tips for Victor to track someone that old?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “Their magic is totally different. All innate, no sympathetic stuff. We’re on our own, here.”

 

“Lovely,” Jess says.

 

Sam makes a face of agreement. He holds out his hand for the flask and makes another face when Dean turns it upside-down to show it’s empty. “Any good news before bed? At all?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Seer Shurley should be getting in tomorrow. That’ll be a fun interrogation to sit in on, if you’re up for it.”

 

“I definitely want to talk with Chuck,” Sam confirms. “I don’t think he’d have done anything to deliberately hurt us.” The _but_ hangs heavily in the air, a slight breeze away from falling. They’ve all done a lot of hurt to themselves lately, none of it deliberate.

 

“I’ll make sure someone comes to get you,” Dean promises. “Lay off on that finding him by finding me crap until you’re better.”

 

Jess crosses her arms and shoots Sam a look.

 

Sam winces. “Hey, I don’t need to be a seer to know Dean is popping in after midnight, Jess.”

 

“Don’t care,” Jess says. “You give it a rest.”

 

“Speaking of rest,” Sam says, clearly trying to weasel his way out of a lecture.

 

Jess and Dean exchange glances. Jess sighs, and Dean helps Sam back to bed. “Do you want us to stay tonight?” Dean asks, pulling up the blankets while his brother’s eyes slip closed.

 

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Sam says, face turned to the side, which means _stay_.

 

They stay.

  
  


Dean leaves the spell parameters with Victor first thing in the morning, along with the order to notify Dean as soon as the spell takes hold. He’d stay to watch, but whoever was in charge of fetching Seer Shurley wasn’t messing around. He turns up around mid-morning with the exhausted, shaking motions of someone who has slept in a carriage rather than a bed for two nights running.

 

There’s a bunch of preliminary formality to get out of the way, a load of pomp and circumstance to indicate that Chuck’s speedy arrival was entirely consensual. The seer has wide eyes, a scruffy beard, and a satchel full of paper. His change of clothes is left in the carriage, ostensibly to be carried to the guest apartments. Whether Chuck will end up in those apartments or the dungeon remains to be seen.

 

Even before they’re in private, Chuck’s a stumbling, fumbling mess. After being picked up by royal guards—for his own protection, of course, with a seer-kidnapping archangel on the loose—a lot of civilians get flustered. Being rattled around in the carriage for two days probably didn’t help that either. Seeing Sam on crutches _definitely_ doesn’t help.

 

Good to know the guy cares, at least.

 

Sam’s back to wearing gloves, ostensibly for a better grip on his crutches, and so Dean doesn’t quite jump out of his skin when Sam goes in for a hug with his mentor.

 

Then Sam pulls back, looks Chuck in the eye, and pierces Chuck to the heart of the matter in a way King John never could.

 

“What did you think you wrote?” Sam asks in the voice of a man who knows, _know_ s, who trusts beyond trust that he has not been betrayed. Instead of putting Chuck on the defensive, it makes him guilty, desperate to reassure for Sam’s sake above his own.

 

It’s a master class in manipulation, and the kicker is, Dean thinks it’s even sincere.

 

Chuck spreads out his writings for them across the meeting table. Once Sam sits, Chuck keeps offering him specific pages until he finds the right one. He needn’t bother, though.

 

“You do know our ancient languages expertise is only practical, right?” Dean checks. “Unless you wrote the world’s longest exorcism, none of us can read this.”

 

“I couldn’t either, initially,” Chuck says. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, Sir Dean: one day in April, I just started writing. I felt… I was sick. Bad shakes. This was the only thing that helped. I thought it was jibberish until I ran it by one of the language students. My, uh. My current protege, Kevin. He’s pretty blocked on visions, but language is, um. Never mind.”

 

“What does it say?” Sam prompts, still calm, still gentle. Standing behind him, King John looms in a way Sam’s adult height doesn’t often allow him.

 

“That there was to be disaster unless I got you a shield, Your Highness,” Chuck says. “Well, not, not _me_. Not directly.”

 

“A shield,” Sam repeats, looking at Dean. “Thank you, Chuck. We got your shield. What exactly did _you_ do, to get it to us?”

 

“I traveled,” Chuck says. “A little. To, um. It was just this barn on a farm, but I’d written it, and there was this… glowing sand cloud?”

 

“A portal,” Dean agrees.

 

Chuck nods. “A, um, man? A man came through. He looked like a man, but he was wearing shadows on his back. Like some kind of illusion. So I introduced myself, and I gave him a message for Archangel Raphael.” Here, he speaks a language Dean only understands a few words of. “It translates into ‘ _In Winchester Castle lies the key to the return of angels, and to the return of Lucifer’s might; beware, for demons know.’_ I just, I knew if I interested them, they would send the shield. That’s, um. Here.” He gathers up five entire pages. “I don’t normally get a lot of variations, but this time, I got to pick. That one had the best outcome. As long as I didn’t explicitly ask for the shield, they would exchange it for their way out. Out from what, I don’t really know, but they were using a portal for some reason.”

 

Taking the pages, Sam still shakes his head. “Chuck, they didn’t _send_ a shield. Dean had to make it.”

 

“With warding the angel showed him,” King John says.

 

“The shield I wrote of,” Chuck says, “it was specifically a shield of Heaven. It sounded like some kind of artifact, and they were supposed to give it to you to keep. A magic shield, to defend you. There was a matching sword, too.”

 

Dean exchanges another look with Sam. “You sure about that? ’Cause we only got the sword.”

 

“Very. Might I ask His Highness what color the shield is?” Chuck asks.

 

“Gold,” Dean says.

 

“A gilded display piece,” King John explains. “Converted with carved warding.”

 

Chuck’s frown noticeably grows, which is saying a lot. “It was supposed to be black, with an ashy underside.”

 

Dean’s stomach drops.

 

“Dean?” Sam asks, understanding already dawning on his face.

 

“Show me,” Dean commands Chuck. “Which page did you write about the shield?”

 

Chuck mutters and shuffles through them. He pulls out one and Dean skims down words he doesn’t know until the finds the one he does.

 

He points. “Does that say ‘shield of Heaven’?”

 

Owlish, Chuck blinks up at him. “I thought Your Highness couldn’t read it.”

 

“Cass ti’el,” King John reads, eyes fixed on those words above Dean’s fingertip.

 

“Actually, Your Majesty, it’s pronounced–”

 

“We know how it’s pronounced,” Dean interrupts.

 

“How, um,” Sam says, and hesitates. He looks up at Dean and then very much away. “Sorry, how else is the shield described?”

 

Biting his lip, Chuck scrounges around for the next page. “There’s this weird bit about a cup I could never figure out,” he says, “but mostly just that it would protect you. That was also a little weird. It would protect you, but it and the sword would specifically belong to Sir Dean alone.”

 

Dean – can’t.

 

Dean can’t.

 

He leaves the room.

 

He leaves everything.

 

He walks. Though halls. Down stairs. He goes and goes, mind blank, heart full, and he doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know if anyone tried to call him back.

 

He walks until he stumbles, distracted out of his stride, out of his mind.

 

Uncomprehending, he stares at a blank wall. At a large, darker section of old paint with nothing upon it.

 

Their tapestry is gone.

 

Of course it is. A tapestry depicting Lucifer, even poorly, in their castle? Now? No, it’s gone, and probably burned to ash by John. While Mary watched. Of course it’s gone.

 

Servants veer around Dean. Guards pretend not to see him. And still Dean stands, unable to move, eyes fixed on the removed symbol of their meeting place.

 

He waits in that hallway, staring at nothing. If there were any justice in the world, a runner would come for him then, bringing word of Victor’s success with the tracking spell. They would grab Jo and their most efficient combustion carriage. They would speed to whatever corner of the country Cas landed in, and Dean would scoop up his wingless body and hold him all the way back.

 

He stands and he waits, and when nothing comes but tears, he hides himself away until they, too, leave him alone and empty.

  
  


He goes to bed early that night, in his own rooms.

 

He wakes and sleeps and dreams and wakes.

 

Reaching, he wakes. His bed is wide and cold, a distance that hints of a missing presence. It’s nothing like the narrow trundle waiting in his brother’s room.

 

Dean almost gets up.

 

In the end, he just rolls over.

  
  


On the fifth morning since Cas died, Dean goes back to training.

 

With Sam’s wedding in two days and the ongoing Lucifer crisis, half of his knights are already stationed elsewhere in the capital or deeply involved in making preparations. Focusing on a combination of archangel blade and warded shield, Dean runs his drills under Cleric Jim’s watchful eye. Throughout, there is at least one knight tasked with keeping an eye on the skies as the rest train.

 

Then Rufus drags him over to see the angel training dummy. Dean confirms and corrects which ways the wings came in: how Cas had blocked, how Lucifer had attacked. It definitely works for a sense of scale, but the bare wooden bones of the dummy don’t portray the sheer distraction of shielding feathers.

 

They talk about more shield drills. They talk about a lot of things, all combat, and Dean keeps himself from using the word _revenge_.

 

Despite a night of awful sleep, he’s not worn out at all at the end of the session. He grabs Jo and they keep sparring. She drills him on movements for the long knife, for daggers, and he adapts them to the archangel blade as best he can.

 

After all, there’s been a storm of omens to the southwest. A literal storm of them. The demons are searching for their fallen father, and once they find him, Dean will find him too. Dean will find him, and tear him open, and no one and nothing will ever hurt Sam again. Dean has to stay close for now, has promised countless times to stay in town until the wedding, but after that, Dean’s crusade will begin.

 

“You’re gonna take me with you,” Jo says after correcting his stance yet again. He’s reaching, always reaching, with the short length of his blade.

 

“Looking to be my squire again?” Dean asks.

 

Jo draws herself up and looks him in the eyes. She looks him through the eyes. She looks him in the heart. “Looking to be your knight,” she says. “I heard you screaming on that door, Dean, and I won’t let you face him alone. Even if I’m just carrying extra warded shields.”

 

Dean looks at the earnestness of her face and the small target of her body. He looks at vengeance, and then he looks at practicality, because revenge isn’t important. Sam is.

 

“You should practice with this too,” Dean says, and he hands the archangel blade over.

 

Jo takes it with the reverence it deserves. “I won’t let you down again,” she vows.

 

“We won’t let us down again,” Dean says. “We’ll be prepared this time.”

 

“For what it’s worth,” Jo says, “for not knowing what you were doing, you did really well.”

 

Dean shakes his head.

 

Jo sighs at him. “Well, I tried. But I’m not going to argue with you when you’re out to kick your own ass. Just don’t kick it too hard, all right?”

 

Dean sighs back. “Yeah, that’s still your job.”

 

She gives him a smile, but he can’t give her one back.

 

“C’mon,” Jo says, passing him back the archangel blade. “Better get cleaned up before your queen friend gets here.”

 

Dean honestly doubts Charlie will care—she might want the opportunity to tease—but his shirt is sticking to him and the drying sweat is starting to stink. “Yeah, yeah,” Dean says as they head back in, and there’s something to be said for indulging in normalcy.

  
  


Charlie vacillates between horrified and thrilled, and that’s without telling her half of it. Mostly, she’s horrified. Which is fair. Between Sam’s thwarted kidnapping, Dean almost being turned into a demon by an angry archangel, and that archangel still being alive, there’s a lot to be horrified about.

 

Maybe they shouldn’t have mentioned the almost being turned into a demon thing, but Sam spilled the beans on that one when Charlie was getting too worried over his broken leg and the asshole wanted a distraction.

 

Really, the only part she’s thrilled about is entirely based in rumor.

 

“So what’s this about you getting engaged to an _angel_?” she asks, leaning forward in Sam’s sitting room. “Is this something I should start looking into? I’ve got a couple cousins who need marrying off.”

 

“I’m not engaged,” Dean snaps. “No one’s getting engaged.”

 

Charlie leans back, eyebrows raised high. “Uh, _rude_ ,” she points out, like she’s trying to joke around it, like it’s something that can be joked about.

 

“It was on the table,” Sam explains, because this is the new official story, and even Charlie gets the official story. Especially Charlie. Friend or not, little sister or not, she’s a monarch in her own right, and they’ve shown enough weakness already. “But with Cas gone, it’s just not going to stick.”

 

Charlie looks at Dean, then. Really looks in the way everyone’s been doing, the way that makes Dean want to go around stabbing eyeballs. “Oh,” she says.

 

“So Gilda’s talking to Jess about queen stuff?” Sam asks. “How is the Princess Consort, anyway? I mean, I saw her in the receiving hall with Mom and Dad, but that’s not the same.”

 

“Right, yes,” Charlie says, still looking at Dean, but the conversation moves on.

 

Sometime later, after Sam has to go down for his afternoon nap but before Charlie finishes drafting a letter to the angels with the greetings of Moondoor, Charlie grabs Dean by the arm before he can leave her guest chambers.

 

“I demand a tour of your fair city,” she informs him. “Tomorrow.”

 

“You’ve already had the tour,” he tells the queen of their neighboring country.

 

“Ages ago,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Look, tomorrow is your last chance for a day off until… I don’t even know when, and I don’t think you do either. You’re heading out on a hunt after Sam’s wedding, I can tell. _So_ , we’re going to do something fun.”

 

“Don’t want to.”

 

“Too bad,” she tells him. “Somebody’s got to entertain the diplomats, and I’m picking you. You grab some of your guards, Gilda and I grab some of ours, and we’ll make a day of it.”

 

“Charlie.”

 

“Let me distract you,” she says. “I’m good at that. If you don’t want Gilda there, it can be just us.”

 

“Just us and an entire platoon of guards,” Dean corrects.

 

“Eh,” Charlie says, waving a faux-dismissive hand. “You get used to it. What do you say?”

 

“Do I have a choice?” Dean asks, already knowing the answer.

 

“Nope,” Charlie says. “I’ll put in a request all formal-like with your dad, even.”

 

“Fine,” Dean says, even though it really isn’t.

 

“Do I get to hug you now, or…?”

 

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

 

“Good,” Charlie says, getting up from her borrowed desk, her letter still only half-drafted. “Then you won’t mind a hug.” And she looks up at him with those puppy dog eyes, the effect only compounded by the waves in her red hair mimicking a spaniel’s ears.

 

Dean heaves a put-upon sigh and holds his arms out.

 

Charlie tucks herself in.

 

After a long moment, Dean tucks himself down.

 

She holds on tight, so of course he has to match. She squeezes like it’s a contest, so Dean squeezes back as hard as he can without breaking her. When something starts to shift inside his chest, he tries to pull back, but then she says, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

 

Dean bites his lip and says nothing. He breathes through his nose, as steady as he can, and they’re still like that, holding each other, when the door opens and Gilda enters with Jess. The women’s light, happy conversation cuts short as Dean pulls away from Charlie, blinking hard.

 

“It’s good to see you, Sir Dean,” Gilda says, as if they hadn’t exchanged even stuffier greetings only a few hours ago.

 

“And you as well, princess,” Dean replies with a slight bow. “I’m afraid your wife has been making plans without you.”

 

“Did you demand the tour, dear?” Gilda asks, making her and Charlie sound like a couple married for a couple of decades, and not a couple of years. “We really don’t need the tour again.”

 

“But I _want_ the tour,” says a twenty-two year old queen.

 

Dean rolls his eyes but dutifully says, “Don’t be a baby.”

 

“No, because then you’d _drop_ _me_ ,” Charlie shoots back, because these are the things they say to each other.

 

Dean smiles without meaning to. He catches himself immediately and puts a stop to it, but Charlie beams at him in victory all the same.

  
  


“So get this,” Sam says the moment Dean opens his door. Or rather, the moment the hallway guard opens the door after Dean shouts “Yeah, come in!” at the sound of Sam’s signature knock. But in the castle, that’s basically the same thing.

 

Sam and his crutches enter, but they don’t stop in Dean’s sitting room. Dean gets the door to his bedroom himself, and watches Sam perch his ass on the corner of his desk.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Dean asks, eyeing Sam’s clothes pointedly. Dean’s dressed for bed and has been since well before midnight, but trying to sleep is somehow more awful than staying awake.

 

“I wanted to check tonight’s angel mail,” Sam says. “Things have gotten a little bit more interesting since Chuck joined in.”

 

Dean bristles, purposefully not thinking of shields. He can’t have that connection in his head, not if he’s ever going to be able to fight again. Standing between his desk and his bed, he forces his hands open before they can fully become fists. “So?”

 

“So,” Sam says, shifting farther back on the desk and crossing his arms over the crutches, “the angels have been circling around a couple questions for a while. Chuck didn’t tell them anything about ‘cups’ or ‘pouring bowls’ because he doesn’t know what it means, and Dad made sure his first letter didn’t explicitly connect Lucifer regrowing his wings with me. Heavy emphasis on the seer kidnapping angle and all.”

 

“Meaning what?” Dean asks, now very much aware of the mistake of letting Sam in. It’s too fucking late for this.

 

“Either they think I don’t know I’m a vessel, or they’re not sure I am,” Sam says. “It’s a lot of sideways, probing questions. It means they don’t know.” He spreads his hands and looks to Dean expectantly, as if this is amazing news.

 

Dean stares back. Finally, he says, “Look, Sammy, I’m tired. Just spell it out.”

 

“Cas didn’t tell them,” Sam says, grinning softly, like this is meant to make Dean happy.

 

“And?” Dean says.

 

Sam’s grin fades, a frown coming over his face from the top down, pressing on his eyebrows long before it hits his mouth. “Dean, that’s huge intel. And he educated us instead of telling his archangel. You said the first thing he told you was that he promised to keep it secret, right? And he did!” Sam gestures again, hands spread, palms up, as if demanding Dean place some sort of satisfactory reaction into them.

 

Tired and numb and done beyond belief, Dean just stands there. “And?” he repeats.

 

Sam stares at him like Dean’s speaking another language. “That was only the third night.” He waits, so damn expectant for a response. “Dean, three nights of knowing you, and he valued a promise to you over reporting to his archangel.”

 

Raphael isn’t Cas’ archangel. Wasn’t. Dean knows it, was told it in a myriad of tiny ways, and holds that truth in his mouth without letting it go. The night they met, Cas describing the tapestry. The battle where Michael and Gabriel fell, and Raphael alone survived to finish cutting off Lucifer’s wings. The distance there. Cas talking about vessels, about the artificer vessel Raphael took.

 

Cas talking about Michael. Not an archangel, no. A soldier. A warrior, if Michael really had trained the sheer onslaught of power that Cas became. Not a father, not true family, but something.

 

No, when it came to Raphael, Cas’ loyalties were already split, and the ease of knowing this burns inside Dean’s chest.

 

“What?” Sam asks, like Dean’s the one being difficult here. “Don’t you get it? He made a promise and kept it. It wasn’t all lies, Dean. He really did care for–”

 

“And how,” Dean says, voice as tight as his fists, “is that supposed to help?”

 

Sam’s frown deepens. “I’ve seen how betrayed you’ve been feeling. I know this doesn’t change everything, but–”

 

“Yeah,” Dean interrupts. “You’re right. It doesn’t change anything. He’s still _dead_ , Sam.”

 

“...Oh,” Sam says, because this is apparently some kind of revelation.

 

“What, did you forget that part?” Dean demands.

 

“No,” Sam says, hard. “I’m never going to forget that,” he says, like Cas mattered to him, like Sam had actually known and cared for the guy. “But I thought hearing this might help with the betrayal part.”

 

“Someone can’t betray you unless they’re on your side,” Dean tells him. “That’s how betrayal _works_.”

 

Sam shakes his head with the soft emphasis of exhaustion. “I’m not here to argue semantics, Dean. If I thought it would help you, I would, but-”

 

“I’m _fine,_ ” Dean snaps. “He’s been dead now for longer than I knew him, I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not fine if you’re counting,” Sam says, much too calm.

 

“Get out of my room,” Dean tells him.

 

Sam doesn’t. “I’m the only person you can talk to about this, Dean. I mean, Jess’ll listen, but I don’t think you’d want to tell her. Or Bobby. And Jo isn’t supposed to know. You’re not talking to Mom or Dad, so it has to be me.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be anybody,” Dean says. “I got nothing to talk about.”

 

“Then I do.” Sitting on Dean’s desk, crutches balanced against his knees, Sam somehow stands tall. His gaze as unwavering as his voice, he says, “Thank you.”

 

Dean’s entire mind pauses. Eventually, he says, “What?”

 

“You were ready to let Nick kill you, just to make sure he couldn’t touch me,” Sam says, like this is some remarkable thing. “You were ready to let him kill you and Cas, and I…”

 

“I wasn’t _ready_ to,” Dean corrects in one harsh bite. “I let him kill Cas.”

 

“Cas killed himself,” Sam reminds him gently, as gently as anyone can ever be reminded of such a thing.

 

“I still let him,” Dean insists. “I don’t know what kind of a vantage point you get with the whole ‘visions while unconscious’ thing, but the entire safety plan was to get you behind a warded door. I was gonna leave Cas up there to get torn apart, Sam. I didn’t even have to _think_ about it.”

 

For just an instant, Sam looks down. Then he matches Dean’s gaze as firmly as ever. “It’s not your fault he’s dead.”

 

“I told him to bring you back,” Dean says. “And you know what he told me?” With Sam’s visions, it’s almost a real question, not merely rhetorical. When Sam shakes his head, Dean continues, “He told me to send his body home. I told him to get you, he said he was going to die, and I didn’t even shout after him when he flew away.” And now, they don’t even have his corpse.

 

Cas had succeeded against an archangel. Dean can’t even arrange a funeral.

 

Sam shifts the crutches, pulling Dean’s attention to the motion. “When he came flying into the throne room with your sword, did you tell him to do that?”

 

Recognizing a trap when he sees one, Dean says nothing.

 

“Because it seems to me,” Sam continues, undeterred, “like Cas was going to go after Lucifer whether or not you asked him to.”

 

Hands fisted, arms taut, Dean looks away.

 

“Lucifer was taunting Cas, up in the observatory,” Sam adds. “Trying to get Cas to attack so he could push him aside, I think. He said something about a ‘flamewing,’ so I asked Hannah and Balthazar. I can show you the letter, but the point is, their sister Anna had red wings. She’s… She was how they learned Lucifer couldn’t turn angels into demons.”

 

Cas had said she’d been possessed, but unturned. Dean’s stomach turns for her. A minute’s worth of a failed demonic transformation up on that tower will haunt him for years, he’s certain. “I don’t need to know this.”

 

“I think you do,” Sam says. “Because it was personal for him. Maybe Cas died for us, but I think it was for himself, too. For Anna and Michael.”

 

“Sam,” Dean says as patiently as he can. “That doesn’t matter. I let him die. I let him get tortured in front of me, and I didn’t do a thing to stop it. Never even occurred to me to try.” He doesn’t need to wipe at his face, his eyes too dry for such a gesture, but the urge is there. He forces it down. “That’s what I gotta live with.”

 

Sam’s mouth twists. “And what about when you die?” he asks. “The next time something happens, if you do die for me, is that going to be my fault?”

 

“Shut up,” Dean tells him. “That’s not the same.”

 

“All you could do was watch,” Sam says, echoing every last one of Dean’s recent nightmares. “All I _ever_ do is watch. That’s my entire life, do you realize that? I watch as things happen, and the only thing I can ever do about it, is tell my big brother. So when I tell you I _know_ how much it sucks to be a helpless observer, believe me, all right?”

 

“And I’m telling you to shut up,” Dean repeats. “Get out. I’m done.”

 

Taking his time about it, Sam doesn’t simply make a show of not obeying. No, Sam visibly thinks through conversational strategies and known possibilities, and when he pushes off the desk, it’s clearly because this is what he thinks is best. Unhurried, Sam readies his crutches and puts them back into position beneath his arms.

 

“Thank you for listening to me,” says the diplomat who is his brother. “Thank you for my life. I’m sorry I can’t help you better, and I’m sorry how much I made things worse. I want you to know, I’m going to keep Dad off your back as long as I can. I’ve been tag-teaming with Mom, the way you taught me.”

 

“There’s only so much he can yell at me,” Dean says, “now he has to act like he was planning on me and Cas tying the knot.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “Dean, you got taken in by _Cas_. Me and Jess, Mom and Dad? We got taken in by _Lucifer_  No matter how much Dad wants to deflect and pile it all onto you, we’re the ones who fucked up the most. _I’m_ the one who fucked up the most. After I learned about being a vessel, I should have picked someone ungifted, but I decided it would be still be safe to kiss a mage I barely knew. I was too afraid of making a controversy by kissing someone ungifted, and I nearly got all of us killed.”

 

“Don’t do this,” Dean half-orders, half-begs. “Not right now.”

 

“Do what?” Sam asks.

 

“Don’t ask me to comfort you.”

 

Not when it hurts this much.

 

Not when Dean will try anyway.

 

Strangely bewildered, Sam stares at him. “I wasn’t asking you to. I’m saying I made a mistake, Dad made it right alongside me, and I’m not going to let either of us forget that. If we’re going to hold the Royal Hospital accountable for letting him slip through, we can’t hold ourselves to a lower standard.”

 

Dean looks anywhere else. Everywhere else.

 

“I’m going to bed now,” Sam continues. “If you want to talk tomorrow—well, today—let me know. Tomorrow—actual tomorrow—I can’t promise anything, what with the wedding, but I can try. I talked to Jess, and she understands. She, uh. She finally sees the big brother I’ve been telling her about all these years. So. Let me know.”

 

“I’m not gonna bother you on your wedding day,” Dean says to Sam’s knees, to the cast peeking out beneath the hem of his sleep pants.

 

“Then you’ll have to bother me today,” Sam says. “Preferably after sunrise.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, get your beauty sleep,” Dean tells him, waving his hand too jerkily to be truly dismissive. “You got a lot of catching up to do.”

 

Sam smiles faintly. “I’m not going to catch up to Jess anyway.”

 

“I meant to me, bitch,” Dean says, and he manages to look his little brother in the eyes.

 

Sam’s smile says he already knew. “Jerk.”

 

They pause. Crutches in the way, they hug. They part.

 

They go to bed in their respective rooms, in the way of adults, not frightened children.

 

Eventually, perhaps, they even sleep.

  
  


The tracking spell still isn’t working. It’s been three days, and the mask has not once budged, let alone dragged itself off the table in pursuit. The longest it has ever taken Victor before—six and a half mind-numbing hours—now seems an instant.

 

Victor’s jaw is so set in determination, he may have stopped eating again out of lock-jawed inability. Ash is doggedly delighted by the challenge. Between the two of them, they’ve dragged in every available Man or Woman of Letters who has ever researched anything involving magical creatures, ancient life, tracking spells, angels, or any number of things. A few of those researchers are so unused to Dean that they even stop what they’re doing to stand and bow to him as he enters the work space.

 

Supplies even Dean has never heard of have been requisitioned from across the myriad of shops in the capital and even beyond. Some of those might take as long as two weeks to arrive, and others a month to prepare. Dean doesn’t bother reminding them that this is time they don’t have.

 

Half of the tables in the work space have grids traced on them in chalk, an interactive diagram of spell ingredients. A list grows on the wall, every failed combination entered in a carefully cataloged order to prevent wasteful repetition. The rest of the tables look ready to snap under the weight of books piled upon them.

 

When Dean inspects their progress, Victor intercepts him en route to the mask with an apology.

 

“I know you’re working as quickly as you can,” Dean says, which is not the same as forgiveness.

 

Victor shakes his head. “We are, Prince, but that’s not what I was referring to. We’ve removed some of the feathers from the mask. You did say the angel’s wings would be ash, so we’re trying with a small vial of ash, now. We’ve found cremated bodies through burnt hair before. It’s the same, in theory.”

 

“You burned Castiel’s feathers,” Dean says, half in question. The concept sits so poorly in his mind that it doesn’t so much as touch his heart.

 

“A few of them,” Victor says, and he steps aside.

 

Dean looks at the mask, at Cas’ sole remains. From the left eye to the edge, the cloth of the mask is bare and pockmarked. The rest of the feathers still gleam in the light with a dark sheen.

 

“Do whatever you have to,” Dean says. But he takes a feather from the mask himself, pocketing this before it too is gone. It joins the scrap of ribbon.

 

“Prince,” Victor says, which means even worse news.

 

Dean holds up a hand. “Whatever you’re about to say, are you sure enough to say it?”

 

“No,” Victor says, “but it’s a possibility that would only grow worse over time.”

 

Dean lowers his hand. “All right. Tell me.”

 

“If the feathers can’t be enchanted to seek because the angel’s wings have turned to ash,” Victor says, “then the ash vial can only work while the ashes of the wings are in the same area. The more those ashes disperse, the less effective the spell will be, if it can even take at all.”

 

“You’re saying the spell might be failing because it’s been six days,” Dean summarizes, voice flat.

 

“If he landed anywhere outdoors, that’s more than enough time for the ash to blow away,” Victor says.

 

And if he landed indoors somehow, someone would have raised a stink about it.

 

He’s somewhere outside, probably. Rotting in the sun, animals chewing on him in the dark. With enough damage, the sigil carved into his chest will be obscured and no one will report the corpse as anything other than a murder, or maybe someone dying of exposure.

 

“Does Ash have any ideas?” Dean asks, because Ash is absent, presumably in pursuit of something.

 

“None that have worked for the mask or vial,” Victor says. “We did get a leaf to track a five hundred year old tree.”

 

“Sounds like a short hunt.”

 

“It was,” Victor agrees, just as humorless as Dean’s joke. “Adapting for the age of the subject might be the main obstacle.”

 

If it isn’t, they’re screwed.

 

“Keep at it,” Dean orders. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to give Queen Charlene a tour of our fine city.”

 

“Didn’t you do that two years ago?” Victor asks.

 

“Three,” Dean says. “And Her Majesty wants another one.”

 

“If you want me to send word of any breakthrough, I’ll need your itinerary or for you to leave some of your hair,” Victor says.

 

It says a lot about Victor’s assembled team that no one bats an eye at Dean unbuttoning his top shirt, pulling down the neck of his undershirt, and taking a pair of borrowed scissors to his armpit hair. The hair on his head has to look good for Sam’s wedding tomorrow, and he’s not about to trim from anywhere else with an audience. He drops the few tufts in the small vial Victor offers for that purpose.

 

“The second it moves, you come get me,” Dean tells him.

 

“That’s the idea, Prince,” Victor says, taking the vial with him as he returns to his appointed task. Everyone else stands and bows to Dean again on his way out, but not Victor, who merely nods. Victor wastes no time, which is the truest courtesy of all.

  
  


The tour is a pretense for relaxation, and Dean does not relax. The areas they visit teem with possibilities for mishap. The areas they neglect seethe with the insult. When every step is a misstep, the only thing to do is to move confidently.

 

They stroll arm-in-arm, flanked by guards. Dean wears the archangel blade and keeps Charlie on his left, forever ready to draw with his right. They chat about what has changed in the past three years, all of it public works and public knowledge. Anyone fighting to eavesdrop in the streets only hears about state funded improvements. They keep to walking streets only, the better to keep their feet clean and the better to be overheard.

 

A carriage awaits them where appropriate, combustion rather than horse-drawn. Though the combustion carriage was originally invented as a demonstration piece for then-Prince John’s much lauded magical control, this variation is one of the newer, trickier ones that doesn’t rely on a mage. Considered less safe than the mage-operated transport, the use of this carriage is a deliberate choice. As always, everything they do in the public eye is to draw that eye.

 

Even once Dean and Charlie are safely ensconced at the restaurant Sam took him and Jess to on his birthday, their conversation is still performative. Sincere in her questions about the angels, Charlie might not realize it, but Dean is very much aware.

 

He tells her what is safe for him to say. He tells her some of what is true and most of what they’re claiming to be true. He tells her all sorts of things, and the table between them becomes a vast and twisted distance, a stand-in for the border between their countries.

 

Twenty-two years ago, he held her as an infant, thinking her his future wife. Eleven years ago, he mocked her for zapping his brother too hard, thinking her his sister. Today and every day for the rest of their lives, he knows her as a foreign monarch, and they will never be fully honest with each other again.

 

“We missed you at Sam’s party,” he says instead of so much more. “Though I am glad you missed that last night.”

 

“Scheduling around the fae can be a boon in disguise,” Charlie agrees, as formal as their audience of servers demands. The private room can only help so much. “I am sorry I couldn’t meet Cas. He sounds…”

 

“He was,” Dean says. He drains his glass to make the server come near, and then he pulls the feather from his shirt pocket. Aware that every pair of eyes in the room is upon that small puff of black, he holds it out while the luncheon wine pours. He twirls it by the quill, the downy barbs at the base tickling his thumb and forefinger.

 

“You wouldn’t think it,” Dean continues, as if just to that feather, “but his wings were longer than he was tall. He had to keep them folded up so he wouldn’t frighten the other guests. They wanted to see humanity before committing to us, you know, and he did fit in pretty well at a masquerade.”

 

The server steps back into position by the wall. Other than those few light footsteps, the rest of the room is silent. Faint sounds of clinking glass and chattering voices filter in through the door, hints at the main dining room beyond, but only hints.

 

From this small audience, so much gossip will spread.

 

For that reason, he makes himself smile as wistfully as he can. “I had to teach him how to dance like that, with his wings held back. Imagine ballroom dancing with your arms tied behind you.” All of that fumbling. Every stagger. Dean had thought him clumsy. Dean had thought him out of practice at any sort of martial skill he might once have had. But it was just the wings.

 

Dean sighs and returns the feather to his pocket. “Anyway,” he says. “If it’s still going to be a marriage treaty, that’s why it has to be someone else. Not sure their mourning customs will allow that, though.”

 

“I thought Queen Mary didn’t want you in a political marriage,” Charlie says. “Too far from home.”

 

“He was going to live here,” Dean says, quoting a lie he’d believed himself. “Be a Man of Letters. Angel of Letters. Teach people the lost secrets of ages past and fly to us if we got in trouble out on the road. That kind of thing. His siblings might have come too, we were still sorting that out.”

 

Charlie reaches across the table. After a pause, Dean reaches back and lets her squeeze his hand.

 

“Next time,” she says. “Third time completes the charm, right? You’ll get married yet.”

 

“But definitely not before Sam,” he answers, a weak joke Charlie nevertheless grins at.

 

“Not unless you can manage it before noon tomorrow,” Charlie agrees. “That’s nearly a full day. I think you could swing it if you wanted to.”

 

They talk more about Sam’s wedding. How honored Queen Mary was when Lady Jess asked Her Majesty to stand behind her in the ceremony, in place of her own late mother. How Dean’s duties in standing behind Prince Sam now include helping His Highness navigate the difficulties of a broken leg. How the couple’s first dance has already been adapted to one of a brand new style, invented only that week and specifically for the occasion, which involves the taller dance partner standing in just the one spot. Once the dishes are cleared, Dean draws the archangel blade and allows Charlie to lay a hand on the hilt, just to see her face when her powers of metal manipulation can’t alter the blade in the slightest. That, more than the blade’s pedigree itself, earns Charlie’s respect.

 

Throughout it all, Dean keeps an ear open. Not just to the servers waiting upon them, not merely to the dining room beyond, but to the expectation of a messenger.

 

None ever comes, but if Charlie ever notices his distraction, she is too much an ally to draw attention to it.

  
  


That night, their letters to the angels contain two points in addition to the typical batch of diplomacy. Not that there’s anything typical in negotiating with the ruler of an entire species, or that species being both able to wipe out humanity and allegedly uninterested in doing so. Or that ruler being the best chance at destroying an established threat. Or the face-saving pretense of a tentative alliance.

 

Really, it’s all very weird, and Dean is lucky he’s not expected to do anything about it.

 

The point is, they ask for any samples of Castiel’s hair there might be. He was in that realm over six centuries; the guy has to have shed a little in all that time.

 

They also directly call out the angels on the nature of their portal. Not that the warded tarp over the hedge maze is a particular eyesore, but the anticipation of an angel one day popping through is starting to get to people. By this point, Dean’s almost completely certain Cas didn’t want his body sent back for a funeral, but to free up the portal for someone else.

 

Both of these two points are answered with one curious package: a bundled up shirt.

 

The note attached reads _, The portal is keyed to Castiel. While this shirt was communal, any hairs on it that completed the journey must be his. May your search magic fare better with more familiar materials._

 

So that answers that.

  
  


Dean takes the shirt to Victor himself. It’s a curious thing with a normal enough front, but the back has a flap down the center. The flap tapers in the middle, and the lower edges are lined with buttons. Underneath that flap, they find more tiny downy feathers than hair.

 

What hair they do find isn’t enough.

 

Victor tries anyway, and Dean keeps him company. Feathers, ash, hair; Victor tries to activate them separately and together. He substitutes ingredients and repeats the incantation until it’s meaningless in Dean’s ears, but nothing takes hold to seek a dead magical creature, aged twelve hundred years. It’s pushing three in the morning before they give up for the night.

 

Dean tries to get some sleep. After all, there’s a wedding in the morning.

  
  


Sam’s half out of his mind with everything that could possibly go wrong, but apparently that’s normal for a wedding. Every time Dean starts to ask “Do you want me to go check?” Sam cuts him off with a quick “No, I want you here.”

 

While Dean would rather be inspecting the warding, or the security, or any number of important things, Sam insists on smaller things. Dean reassures him about his hair, about his jacket. Dean promises that yes, he will help Sam kneel at the start of the ceremony but, no, he will not help Sam stand at the end, because apparently Jess is doing that. Dean promises to pass off the cane to Bobby while their father officiates, so that the reminder of the violence isn’t present throughout. Dean shows him the marriage crown, and he condescends to show Sam the length of the ribbons attached to the woven band, because, _yes_ , they are long enough for Dad to tie them together with the ribbons on Jess’, and _no_ , it doesn’t look stupidly long, just appropriately long for Sam’s stupidly big body.

 

Once they’ve been over all of Sam’s insecurities at least twice, Sam sighs and stops, jiggling his good leg where he sits. The truest show of his nerves is him acting like this in front of the servants.

 

“Thanks, Dean,” he says. He squeezes his hands in his lap, clearly trying not to adjust his own outfit or touch his own hair. “I’m, uh. Well.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Big day. I get it.”

 

“I just want you to know,” Sam continues, “it’s enough that you’re here for the ceremony.”

 

Dean frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“That if you don’t want to sit through a party for my successful love life, I’ll understand,” Sam says, like he’s honestly expecting Dean to take him up on that. “I can find some excuse for you to duck out early, it’s okay. I don’t mind you leaving.”

 

“And miss a party where Dad has to treat Charlie as his social equal?” Dean asks. “C’mon, I gotta see that. He still thinks she’s six.”

 

Sam frowns at him.

 

Dean frowns back.

 

Their eyes widen at the same time.

 

As one man, they look to the door a second before the knock comes.

 

“Let Sir Victor in,” Sam instructs the man at the door. The servant opens the door, Victor enters, and the servant closes the door behind him with all due haste.

 

“Your Highness.” Victor bows fully to Sam. He repeats the motion with Dean, quick and perfunctory, before holding up a small object wrapped in bug netting.

 

“What is that?” Sam asks.

 

“It’s the mask,” Dean says, already striding toward Victor. “The netting’s to keep the feathers from ripping themselves off the cloth and flying away.” He holds out his hand, and Victor hooks the band of the mask over Dean’s finger. The mask strains in midair, pulling hard toward the wall. “You did it.”

 

“A word in private, Prince, Your Highness,” Victor says.

 

“As he says,” Sam confirms, and the three other people in the room dutifully file out into the hall. “What is it, Sir Victor?”

 

Victor looks between them before addressing Dean. “One of the parameters you gave me was wrong, Prince.” Victor’s stance betrays nothing of his emotions, but the slight hesitation before he continues speaks volumes. “You may recall, you told me to track a dead angel.”

 

Less able to read Victor, Sam comes to the wrong conclusion. “So, what, without the wings, he counts as human?”

 

Mask still straining against one hand, Dean grabs Victor’s shoulder with the other. “Are you _sure,_ ” Dean demands. “Victor, if you are wrong, I’m…” He doesn’t have a threat dire enough. There isn’t one.

 

“The spell only took once I cast it for a living magical creature,” Victor replies.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, but Dean barely hears him.

 

“I,” Dean says. “You.”

 

“Get Dean’s bag packed,” Sam instructs Victor. “One for Jo, too, and get a combustion carriage ready, the fastest we have. Send word of this to the king and queen. And take a healer with you. However Cas managed to survive activating a blood sigil on himself, he has to be in bad shape. He’d have flown back by now otherwise.”

 

“He’s,” Dean says, and the mask keeps tugging, the strap a constant pull against his fingers.

 

“How long will the spell last?” Sam continues. “Do you have enough ingredients to keep renewing it?”

 

“This one should have six hours to it, Your Highness,” Victor reports. “And I have more than enough supplies for now, and can restock most at a roadhouse.”

 

“Good,” Sam says, and he pulls Dean off Victor with a firm but unyielding force. “You depart at noon. Oh, and Dean needs his traveling boots. Get a servant to do the packing, but I want you to personally inform the king and queen why Dean won’t be attending the reception.”

 

“Your Highness,” Victor says, bowing. He holds out a hand to Dean and Dean stares at it, uncomprehending. “You can’t hold on to it through the wedding, Prince,” Victor explains.

 

Dean looks at the mask, gleaming feathers and old cloth straining beneath a layer of netting. Straining and straining, as if they, too, are alive themselves.

 

“Right,” he says, but he doesn’t let go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see what else I'm up to or get (potentially) faster responses to questions and comments, follow me on [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, everybody, and I'll see you next week for that Cinderella staple: the search.


	12. Search

The ceremony is everything it should be. Their father waits upon the dais in the throne room, the wedding guests before him. He wears his thickest crown this morning, concealing the empty patches where Cas pulled molten metal from his head. Behind him, an immense white cloth covers the space where the stained glass window once sparkled, and the golden sigil warding against angels is its own kind of victory flag.

 

Sam approaches from King John’s right. Dean follows, matching steps as best he can to Sam’s proud, uneven gait. He accepts the cane from his brother with the same dignity he would receive an award, and he passes it to Bobby, who has been seated closely for this honor. As Bobby returns to his seat with the cane, Dean returns to Sam’s side and helps him kneel before his future throne.

 

Before them, Jess approaches, Mary keeping pace behind her. In addition to Mary’s crown, flowers have been woven through her braided hair, hiding the same patches her husband conceals. The complex effect contrasts nicely with Jess’ simpler style. In preparation for her wedding wreath, Jess’ hair falls over her shoulders in twisting curls.

 

In unnecessary yet pleasing symmetry, Mary helps Jess to kneel before Jess’ future throne. Jess looks nowhere but at Sam, and even seeing only the back of Sam’s head, Dean knows the reverse is also true. Standing behind his brother, standing over his brother, Dean meets his mother’s gaze and echoes her smile without a second thought. There’s barely a first thought, that continuous distracted murmur of _alive_.

 

He hears his father say the words. He hears the gathered guests rustle as they strain to see. He hears Jess stifle a giggle when John gives the ceremony the rare personal touch of an anecdote. When he hears the words indicating his role, Dean looks to his father and holds Sam’s wedding wreath forward prominently.

 

“On this day, do you pledge yourself to truth?” King John asks him.

 

“On this day, I do pledge,” Dean replies, woven crown in both hands, answering his father’s eyes with his own.

 

“Knowing this man, do you swear to the truth of his love?”

 

Dean looks to Jess over his brother, and she looks up at him, eyes already tearing. “To know this man is to know the truth of his love.” He holds the wreath over Sam’s head.

 

“Do you vouch for their union?”

 

Still looking Jess in the eyes, Dean crowns his brother and answers, “I vouchsafe all my honor.”

 

It’s not part of the ceremony, but when Jess starts to cry, Sam reaches out and brushes those tears aside before they can reach her smile. Beaming, she tilts her face into his hand to kiss his palm. Someone in the audience begins to applaud, and then another, and another. King John has to hold up his hands for the clapping to die down, but even he is smiling.

 

They repeat the vouching with Mary. She attests and stakes her honor. She crowns Jess, and when Mary looks up at Dean, they share the same thought: the next time they crown Sam and Jess, it will be to become king and queen, and John will be dead.

 

Mary looks to John. John looks back.

 

Even as a welcome sight, it is strange to see his parents love each other.

 

The ceremony progresses. Sam and Jess hold their hands out, his left palm facing her right. With each question King John asks them, he pulls another ribbon from their wedding crowns through their hands, weaving a knot.

 

At last, the end draws near as the formal questions finish. “If there is more to bind you,” King John says, “speak it now.”

 

“I love you,” Sam and Jess say in unrehearsed unison. Jess begins to giggle and cry again, and judging by the slant of Sam’s shoulders, he isn’t much better off.

 

“I saw this day years ago,” Sam confesses, a truth Jess already knows but their guests do not. He speaks with a carrying confidence despite the hitch in his voice. “I saw our hands tied before I ever met you, but I didn’t speak for fear of frightening you.”

 

“I would watch you across the campus,” Jess replies. “This handsome man a head above everyone else, smiling in the library when strangers asked him to reach a high shelf. The day someone told me you were the prince, I cried so hard, because I was sure you’d never…” She trails off into smiles and tears both, and Sam takes her other hand. “I love you,” Jess says again.

 

“I love you,” Sam agrees. Then he turns his head and looks up at King John to say, “Father, by your will, we’d really like to be married now.”

 

With a hint of an exasperated smile, King John pulls the ends of the ribbons taut. Sam and Jess pull their hands free, and the knot holds.

 

“You are wed,” King John decrees.

 

Sam and Jess rise together, and Jess takes his weight. Traditionally, the knot tying their marriage crowns would fall just above their clasped hands, but today, the symbolism of the knot is overshadowed by Jess’ literal support for her new husband. They make their slow but steady way down the center aisle, a new, joined direction that will nevertheless have to turn to the left to exit the throne room. With Sam’s cane in hand, Dean follows the couple with his mother at his side. King John is behind them. Bobby, Jess’ father, grandmother, and siblings, and the remainder of the honor guard fall in behind him.

 

As processions go, it’s a mercifully short one to the great hall. Halfway there, Sam stoops to whisper to Jess, and Jess looks back between them at Dean, her eyes wide.

 

 _Alive_? she mouths.

 

 _Alive,_ Dean mouths back.

 

Jess looks up to Sam to ask him something. He nods repeatedly, reassuringly, and Jess smiles back to Dean in clear permission to bolt at the soonest opportunity.

 

They reach the great hall and take their positions behind their appropriate seats. Dean passes Sam his cane so he doesn’t have to lean on Jess the entire time people are getting settled. During the hand-off, Sam leans in as close as the joined marriage crowns will allow, and whispers, “Whatever healing he needs, I’ll do it. Now _go_.”

 

Jess, pulled in close to the conversation by necessity, holds out her arms to Dean. Sam and Jess embrace him fully, in plain sight of all gathered and all those still trickling in, and so when he hightails it out of there, it’s clearly with their permission.

 

He doesn’t risk looking at their father, not when King John might still forbid him with a look, and so he doesn’t risk looking at their mother either. He gives a quick nod to Bobby, prompting Bobby to fill Dean’s empty seat as proxy, and Bobby obeys with raised eyebrows. Dean shoots a huge grin to a quizzical Charlie and Gilda, and then he’s in the crowd, through the crowd, and out the door.

 

Victor catches up with him almost immediately, holding a small and familiar vial on a string. The floating vial taps against Dean’s shoulder before falling limp on its tether, ending the spell, and they’re already on their way out.

 

Dean breaks into a jog, wedding clothes and indoor shoes or not, and when they reach the combustion carriage, Jo is already in place on the front, Cleric Jim beside her to steer. Tethered to the seat by an additional security line, the mask strains in Cleric Jim’s hand. Victor opens the carriage door, Dean clambers inside, and Victor slams the door behind them. Dean slides open the window to the front and gives the order.

 

Jo lights it up. The carriage begins to move, and Dean slides the front window shut as Victor passes him his packed bag. Changing clothes in a moving vehicle isn’t the most difficult thing he’s ever done, but the ornate embroidery and fine fabric of this morning’s outfit feel like they’re about to tear at every bump and turn.

 

Once he’s more durably attired, Dean parts the curtains on the side windows. Victor parts them on the other side, and they watch the city move past too slowly. They’re stuck at horse speeds until they can get out of the capital, and as they pass restaurants and market stalls, Dean’s stomach reminds him that he ran out before the wedding luncheon.

 

“Did you get food packed?” Dean asks Victor.

 

Responding with a look people typically aren’t allowed to give princes, Victor wordlessly passes him a cloth bag. There are travel pasties, still hot and wrapped in paper. Dean digs in with more appetite than he’s had in a week while Victor explains his charted route.

 

“The heading is currently north-northeast,” Victor begins. “We take the north side of the King’s Road until the heading turns northeast and branch from there.”

 

“Toll road or Quietlake bridge, d’you think?” Dean asks, mouth full.

 

“Depends on how far he threw himself,” Victor says. “We’ve already had patrols up to Quietlake, so we might be going even farther.”

 

“How much farther?” Dean asks.

 

Victor shakes his head. “The spell is pulling hard, but it’s too strange to gauge it that way.”

 

Hating it, Dean nods anyway and finishes chewing. He stands, moving to that stooped posture the carriage demands, and lurches forward to lean over the backward facing seats and slide open the front window. “Jo, Jim, you eat yet?”

 

“I’m all set, Your Highness,” Cleric Jim replies.

 

“Kinda got my hands full, too,” Jo adds.

 

“Got it,” Dean says. “Knock when you want something.”

 

“Will do, sir,” says Cleric Jim. “Would you prefer to hold onto this yourself?”

 

He offers Dean the mask, and Dean takes it in an instant. The tether securing it to the driver’s seat trails inside with it.

 

“I’ll tell you when the heading changes,” Dean says, fairly needlessly. If Victor thinks they’re heading north as far as the toll road, they won’t be turning tonight.

 

He slides the window as shut as it will go and tries to settle back down, but he can’t settle. When putting the food bag away, he releases the mask’s band. It _thwap_ s forward against the front seats, pressing itself into the cushion, into the front wall, straining for Castiel.

 

Dean stares at it more than he does the passing buildings.

 

“You’re sure he’s alive?” Dean forces himself to ask. “There’s no way the spell ingredients could be some weird death combination?”

 

“Casting for an entirely different species could have that risk,” Victor allows, like he’s perfectly fine with the idea of Dean vomiting in the carriage with him. “But I don’t think so. It’s the same combination that would work on a living dragon or a chimera.”

 

 _Alive_ , Dean’s mind keeps saying. _Alive, alive, alive_.

 

“Are you prepared, Prince?” Victor asks.

 

“We’re bringing a healer,” Dean says. “Maybe Jim can’t do anything for an angel, but that’s as prepared as we can get.”

 

Looking at him with eyes steadier than the carriage, more knowing than an entire library, Victor says, “The ‘treaty’ was to be cemented with your marriage. That’s common knowledge now.”

 

“Could you let me be happy for five minutes?” Dean asks. “Five minutes, man.”

 

Victor says nothing, because Victor is very good at saying nothing. The truths he knows will never be voiced, but neither can Dean acknowledge them.

 

“When we get him back, he’s probably gonna be… confused,” Dean says. “Blood loss and trauma. Nothing we’re strangers to. I’ll remind him what’s going on.”

 

“And if he’s too confused to remember?” Victor asks, the pair of them secure behind their shield of euphemisms.

 

“He’s a quick learner, even if  Lucifer did stomp his head into a stone floor pretty hard,” Dean says, firm. “And he has as long as it takes to hammer out the treaty to come around to the idea, if he’s forgotten.”

 

It won’t be long. The angels want their tablet too badly, and the kingdom needs a defense against Lucifer. All the foreign heads of state gathered for Sam’s wedding are pushing for that defense as well. Even if Lucifer doesn’t come for Sam directly, he’s regained enough power to make more demons. He’s definitely got the wings back enough to fly down south to Heaven and wake up some angel eggs, too.

 

King John and Archangel Raphael may not trust each other, not by a long shot, but they do need each other, and that will have to force the issue. The stronger bargaining position is currently on the side of the humans, not the angels; to continue to save face before the country, their allies, and their enemies, King John will make Archangel Raphael give Castiel to Dean.

 

“He promised to be mine,” Dean says. “Said if I still wanted him when the world changed, he’d be mine.”

 

“And if the moon falls down tomorrow, I’ll help sweep up the pieces,” Victor replies, and the truth of it stings. Any conditional promise is easy, if the condition is impossible. Cas must have thought it impossible. But.

 

That last night. The desperation and focus that Dean had attributed to dread of separation.

 

Cas had clung to him. Cas had fought for him.

 

Cas had, he’d thought, died for him.

 

So Dean clears his throat as they clear the city, and he shoots Victor a look. “Then I’ll find you a broom.”

  
  


Jo lasts a full four hours. She’s shaking a little when they stop before the post office, and Dean has to order her to sit down and eat while the rest of them convert the carriage to be horse-drawn. She says she’s good to go for another hour, but even with the speed she can pull the carriage, the next post office they can borrow from would be at least an hour and a half away.

 

The post office workers hitch the horses up for them while they stretch their legs and empty their bladders. Everyone has something to eat, and when Jo finishes first, she willingly retires into the carriage for a nap. Part of Dean wants to tell her not to push so hard, but the rest of him is more than aware that just because Cas is alive right now, it doesn’t mean he will still be by the time they reach him. Cas shouldn’t have been able to survive that blood sigil in the first place. Wondering about that first part is as bad as worrying about the rest, and “the rest” is plenty.

 

He’s not bled out, but he could be sick with infection. If no one has found him, that’s hunger and severe dehydration in effect. There’s exposure and sunburn and too many things for Dean to think about. For all Dean knows, someone’s seen a scary wounded monster in the woods and decided to beat the shit out of it, just to be sure. They have to hurry.

  
  


They push the horses hard, too.

  
  


The sun sets too early. They stop for the night around seven-thirty, bedding down in a roadhouse. The next one is too far. Victor and Cleric Jim unhitch the horses. Jo inspects the carriage. Dean unties the mask’s tether from the driver’s seat and brings both mask and tether into the roadhouse with him. He makes arrangements for the night with the mask trying to fly out of his hand the entire time. Victor reset the enchantment on the road a few hours ago, and it will be hours more until it wears off again.

 

Dinner is a tired affair. They keep to their own table despite the presence of another patrol. There are a few civilian guests as well, only prompting their silence further. Watching them all, Dean mops up thick lentil soup with even thicker bread, and he still has to chew the crust for what feels like half an hour before he can swallow it. Cleric Jim and Victor talk about road conditions. Jo eyes the dartboard on the opposite wall but declines to indulge herself even after Dean nods permission. Instead, she joins in on the road talk, explaining to Victor what it feels like to force the carriage up a hill. It’s nothing they can plan their route around, not when they’re trying to reach Cas in a straight line, but it’s something to keep in mind.

 

They go to bed early and wake even earlier. During the night, the tracking spell wore out, and the mask’s tether is a straight line across the floor, one end attached to Dean’s lower bunk, the other end still pointing to Cas. They eat breakfast before Victor casts the spell anew. Dean’s stomach clenches and turns until the spell takes, proving that Cas didn’t die during the night. When Jo powers the carriage away from the roadhouse, leaving the borrowed horses to be returned to the nearest post office, Dean’s mouth still tastes more of bile than of salty porridge and half-burnt bacon.

  
  


Jo nearly makes it all the way until noon, and they do not take the toll road. They’re drawing ever nearer to rivers, to marshland, and, most troubling, the coast. Dean reassures himself that if Cas had landed in water, he would have drowned long before now, which means Cas can’t be lost in the ocean.

 

Between the road weaving around hills and marshes, and the bumpiness of the carriage, it takes until around two in the afternoon for Dean to be sure what he’s seeing. They check with a compass, and their heading now is definitely more northeast than north-northeast.

 

It’s the first true sign they’re getting close.

 

They push the horses the same as they did yesterday, and they exchange them at the available post offices. At one, a particularly hard-nosed clerk starts to give Cleric Jim and Victor a hard time. Waiting inside the carriage, Dean swaps out his hunting jacket for his wedding coat, and when he steps out with royal bearing in full effect, it is surprisingly cathartic. The clerk falls over himself, and every single person at the post office that day is made aware that Knight Prince Dean is in need of fast horses.

 

Back in the carriage, a supposedly napping Jo snickers to herself where she stretches across the backseat. Sitting in the front seat, facing her, Dean prods her with the dusty toe of his boot until she stops.

 

Hours later, they leave those horses and set Jo back in place. Grinning wildly at the well-kept road toward the port cities, Jo pushes the carriage faster than a canter and keeps it there longer than ought to be humanly possible. They all tease her for complaining about her extra training, and she proudly declares that there is a reason King John has taken an interest in her skills.

 

They swing east, away from the Port Road. They branch north. The mask points the way down narrow paths and they stop to consult maps. They keep to the wider, better maintained roads where they think they can risk it, and what their path gains in distance, their journey shortens with speed.

 

If they’d been led to the northwest, there would have been more roadhouses, but the coast to the northeast is rocky, bad for ports. No ports means fewer roads and less funding to staff them. They’re increasingly in the sticks, patches of farmland stuck in between swamps and marshes. They spend the night in an actual inn, no government affiliation at all, but both the innkeeper and her wife seem to understand that, royal guest or not, Dean is in no mood to be fussed over.

 

“We’ll find him tomorrow,” Victor says, not with hope but as an educated guess.

 

Dean nods. The mask sits on the table between the four of them, now easily held down by the weight of Dean’s full glass. As they eat, the spell slowly gives up for the second time that day. Beyond the moments required while eating, Dean keeps his mouth shut.

 

With the mercy of practicality, Victor soon spreads out a map on the cleared table. Jo brushes crumbs away from it. Unwilling to let so much as a feather fly away, Dean wraps the netting tighter around the mask and ties the small bundle with additional string. Victor casts his third spell of the day.

 

They find the inn’s general location on their map, orient the map according to their compass, and allow the mask to strain against its tether over the map. The line of the tether stretches across land, over a lake, across floodplains, and out to the ocean. Knowing this, they plot their course for the following day.

 

West of the lake, they decide. The roads are better on that side, and they can remain nearly parallel to the tether’s path for some miles. When the mask points them directly east, that’s when they’ll move in.

 

The inn’s staff watches with poorly disguised curiosity. Dean ought to care, but doesn’t. He simply holds the mask in both hands, letting it try to pull him to Cas. It pulls all through the night, up until it stops, and Dean wakes with a limp tether clenched in his hand.

 

Panic in his throat, he staggers out of his private bedroom and into the inn hallway, all the way down into the receiving room with its many chairs and proud, ornate clock. Squinting through slanting beams of moonlight, he checks the time and does the math. It’s been over six hours. The spell died, not Cas.

 

He goes back to bed, and he does not sleep well.

  
  


The mask begins to change direction well before Jo is worn out. Though the steam hissing up from the engine with each ping of a raindrop doesn’t help, the damp weather has slowed them only slightly. Today as yesterday and the day before, it’s the much slower carts and carriages they share the road with that truly impede their progress.

 

Dean steers the carriage east while Cleric Jim shouts out directions from inside the carriage, the map kept inside against the threat of misting rain. The road they’re on ought to get them close to the lake without too much turning, which is always a feat of coordination best avoided.

 

They see the chimney smoke smudging gray into darker clouds above long before they see the shine of the lake. The closer they come, the deeper Dean’s stomach drops, but he blames it on the map. Topography can be a difficult art, and their map is certainly more accurate around the capital. They must have held the tether over the wrong starting point on the map, unable to properly find the inn. That has to be it.

 

He tells himself this until he doesn’t have a hope of believing it, and all the while, the mask strains directly toward the lake.

  
  


They park on the outer roads of the fishing town, the carriage too wide for old, narrow streets. Before the carriage even comes to a stop, they’ve drawn the attention of everyone in the town with a pair of working ears and the presence of everyone with nothing better to do. Or, at least, nothing that can’t be put off for some time spent gawking.

 

“Jo, stay with the carriage,” Dean orders, climbing down from the driver’s seat and in front of a forming crowd. Though it’s unlikely anyone here has the skill or audacity to steal it, the steam rising from the engine through the rain might not be enough to deter curious young hands from getting burned, and that’s a problem they don’t need right now.

 

“Yes, sir,” Jo replies with eyes that say _No, Dean_. “Unless you need me to procure rooms or find someone, I will be right here.” And she draws out her father’s knife from her boot to cut off a small lock of her hair. The knife goes back into the boot. The hair goes to Victor who, anticipating this, already has an empty vial in hand.

 

“Victor, Jim, with me.” Dean leads the way directly into the crowd of people better dressed for the weather than they are, and most of the townsfolk do have the good sense to get out of their way.

 

As always, there is that one random person who recognizes Dean without anyone needing to use his title, because that’s just the way the world works. Today’s variation is the second kind of annoying, announcing rather than fawning. She looks older than Grammy Millie made it to be, but she’s got the lungs of a much younger and larger woman. There’s nothing like a half-deaf woman “quietly” informing her neighbor, to make news spread immediately.

 

A child, maybe five years old, one of those small ages, comes running straight up to him with wide eyes. “Is there a monster, Your Majesty?”

 

Dean ignores the matter of address for the more important point. The unexplained presence of a monster-hunting prince is enough to cause panic, he knows that, he _knows_ that. “No,” Dean says, gesturing for the boy to walk alongside him for a moment, even as the boy’s mother looks on, aghast. Making sure his voice carries, he adds, “I’m looking for my friend. He’s a man with dark wings.”

 

The boy’s wide eyes try to eclipse his entire face. Behind him, his mother hurries to keep pace. “You have an angel friend?”

 

“I do,” Dean confirms, because it is important the entire kingdom know this lie as truth. “A very good angel friend. He got hurt helping me fight a monster, and we think he fell somewhere nearby. We’ll need somewhere to patch him up.”

 

“I know where the doctor is,” the boy offers. “My daddy needs the doctor a lot because his lungs make this noise.” And the boy lets out a dramatic coughing sort of wheeze. “That.”

 

“Tell the doctor we’ll need to borrow some space,” Dean tells the boy, his eyes raised to the mother. “We have our own healer.”

 

“Of course, Your Highness,” she says over her son, and bows deeply. She pointedly holds out her hand to the boy, and he grabs hold. “Shall I fetch the veterinarian as well?” When Dean stares at her, uncertain whether to be offended, she adds, “For his wings. Your Highness said he fell? Our doctor is a fine one, but I don’t think she knows how to set broken wings. The vet, he’s mostly cows and goats, but he treats the turkeys well enough.”

 

“Yes,” Dean says. Then, stronger: “Yes, find the veterinarian, thank you.”

 

Both woman and child hurry away, the boy with many a backwards glance. The tethered mask leads Dean down narrow streets, across a stone road, and ever closer to the destination he fears. They reach the docks, and still the mask strains forward.

 

“We’ll go around,” Dean announces.

 

“Prince,” Victor begins, but Cleric Jim nudges him.

 

“Surely taking a boat would be faster, Highness,” Cleric Jim points out.

 

Dean stares across the water, dotted with fishing boats and absolutely no islands, and the mask draws him onward.

 

“If he’s on the other side, we can get Jo to come around and meet us easily enough,” Victor says. If.

 

“And you’ll sweep up the moon, huh.”

 

Cleric Jim looks to Dean in confusion, but Victor merely nods. He is very nearly sympathetic, and that is already more than Dean can stand.

 

“Find us a boat,” Dean orders.

  
  


The boat is a small thing, ironically named _Leviathan_. Its owner is an even smaller woman named Ashley with arms like steel. The boat is big enough for a three person crew, and so she takes merely herself, her daughter, and Dean. She steers the boat where the mask points, but the mask no longer stretches out horizontally. Increasingly, it strives downward at a slant.

 

“The girl dives well, sir,” Ashley promises. “Whatever you need fished up, my Pat can reach.”

 

“It’s the getting him back up I’m worried about,” Dean says, only a partial truth. It’s the everything he’s worried about. Alive, Victor had said, or guessed, but floating underwater for over a week tells a different story.

 

As if reading his mind, Ashley asks, “With all the respect in my heart, sir, are you sure we’re not sending my girl down to fetch a corpse?”

 

“I can do it, Ma,” complains Pat, teenaged and horrified at being embarrassed in front of a prince.

 

“Angels are tough,” Dean promises them, and he is the best liar he has ever known.

 

Much too soon and after far too long, the mask finally appears as if the spell has worn off. It hasn’t. Now, the mask drags his hand down with a force stronger than mere gravity. Careful about it, Dean looks over the edge of the boat.

 

With a confidence Dean frankly envies, Pat tugs off her boots and socks before tying a rope around her waist. “I can ride the anchor down, Your Highness, if you think I won’t hit him.”

 

Dean holds the mask out over the water and waits until the tug is straight down. The water is dark and murky, its surface disturbed by ripples and misting rain. Even without a splash landing on him, Dean’s clothing sticks to him wetly, and he fights the urge to shiver despite the mid-May warmth.

 

“Don’t drop here. Go a few feet to the side,” Dean orders.

 

“Yes sir,” Pat says, before looking at her mom.

 

Ashley hefts up the iron loop of the anchor, the cords of her arms taut. “Ready, girl?”

 

“Ready, Ma,” Pat confirms, taking hold of the anchor without supporting it. The pair count down together before Ashley tosses the anchor and Pat jumps. The girl and anchor break the water with a single joint splash. They go down in a rush of bubbles, but when Ashley doesn’t seem concerned, Dean decides to keep his mouth shut. He waits instead, watching the rope tied to Pat uncoil, following her into the lake.

 

After an impossibly long wait, Pat’s head breaks the water. Her eyes and teeth flash as she takes in a deep breath. “I found something!” she shouts, and she lifts the hand not holding the anchor’s rope.

 

Kneeling at the edge of the boat, Dean stretches out his hand. He doesn’t think of what ten days submerged does to a corpse. Doesn’t think of swollen limbs and putrefaction, the insides spilling out through broken skin. A human body would need a net at this point, and a fine one at that. A single rope would split the corpse in half.

 

Not thinking, not thinking at all, Dean holds out his hand, and she slaps a wet, matted mess of a feather against his palm.

 

“I need the rest of him, kid,” Dean tells her, voice remarkably steady.

 

“I got the rope looped around him, sir,” she says, treading murky water. “Gonna make sure the knot’s good and won’t go near his neck.”

 

“Do it,” Dean commands.

 

With a nod, the girl drags herself back below the surface, pulling herself down by the anchor’s rope.

 

Waiting with the mask in one hand and the soaked feather in the other, Dean forces his eyes clear and open. He makes himself breathe. By sheer force of will, he keeps the entire world moving from one second to the next. He holds the damp feather to his lips and tells himself that what he smells is lake muck, not death.

 

Pat reappears. She nods to her mother, and with that, Ashley begins to pull on the rescue rope. Dropping the wet feather into the boat and sticking his arm through the mask’s band, Dean helps her. They haul on a firm, resisting weight. The wet rope is a black and slippery tendril, and Dean holds tight until his hands burn with the cold. Pat paddles to the side, making room for a dark, rising shape.

 

He surfaces chest first, shirt cut, the blood sigil clear and red, neither scabbed over nor rotted open. His head lolls back into the water, and his wings stretch below him, endless, their tips invisible beneath the gloom. Holding onto the boat, Pat lifts his head up, touching him without the reservations that decay brings. The immense discoloration of his face must be a bruise. Eyes closed, body limp, Cas doesn’t cough or breathe, but he doesn’t look ten days dead either, no matter how much murky water spills from his open mouth.

 

Carefully, Pat manages to turn him around so his chest faces the side of the boat. They get one arm up, and then the other. Pulling at his clothing only rips it further, the worn fabric weary with water and half-shredded from the attention of fish and bottom-dwellers. Needing the firmer grip, Dean grabs Cas’ right hand the moment it’s within reach, and the skin is cold and slimy with algae.

 

“The wings will make this difficult,” Ashley observes, but she bids Pat to swim around to the other side of the boat as ballast all the same. For the rest, Ashley does the hauling, Dean the supporting. She pulls and he secures, taking more and more of Cas’ weight until Dean’s half-crushed, lying down in the narrow space of the deck with Cas’ limp wings sprawled to either side. It’s his first time with Cas on top of him, and the result is like being soaked with ice.

 

Turning Cas over takes some work. Dripping but back in the boat, Pat helps Dean fold up Cas’ right wing, so they can better roll Cas over it and onto his back. The left wing is a maze of broken angles that Dean doesn’t dare touch.

 

Once they turn him, Pat swears hard enough to give Jo or even Ellen a run for their money.

 

Ashley cuffs her daughter upside the head, but Dean can’t particularly blame the girl. Cas’ shirt is a ruin of its former self, slashed to bits even before the water damage, and the sigil shines wetly between that parted curtain. Covering only a small part of the pattern with his hand, Dean feels no heat, no heartbeat, but neither does his hand come away red. “Yeah, it’s a blood sigil,” he acknowledges.

 

“I saw that in the water, sir,” Pat says, vaguely recovered. “I meant, what’s that sword doing in his arm?”

 

“What,” Dean says, but Pat kneels down and parts Cas’ split sleeve over his left arm.

 

There, as if the flat of the blade has been glued down against his skin, is an angel blade. The tip reaches toward the crook of his arm. The hilt seems to have fused with his palm. When Dean reaches for it, the blade refuses to shift, stuck to Cas’ skin. No: embedded.

 

“What the fuck,” Dean says in front of two of his father’s subjects.

 

They have no more answers than Cas’ motionless body.

 

“What the fuck,” Dean says again, but the closer he looks, the clearer it becomes.

 

“It looks like it melted into his arm,” Pat says. “Is it enchanted to do that? Sir. Because that looks _nasty_.”

 

“An angel’s sword is a spell,” Dean says, and then he starts laughing. He grips Cas’ left forearm with both hands and starts pushing, trying to force the blade in deeper. “It’s got his magic in it. It’s got his _life_ in it, that’s why he’s… The blood sigil could only take the power in his blood. Stupid fucking genius stored some life inside his body, but outside of his blood.”

 

Broken wings and cold body or not, all they need to do is get that blade back inside him. Or get him back to Sam. Or maybe just wake him up enough for Cas to pull in the blade on his own.

 

Dean gives up on pushing the blade in while Ashley pulls up the anchor and brings them back to the docks. Instead, he shucks his jacket and drapes it over Cas, concealing both the sigil and Cas’ lack of breath. Ignoring the smell, Dean brushes wet hair off his forehead. He takes the damp, used towel Pat offers him and dries Cas’ face. He nods when Pat asks if she can pull sticks and seaweed out of those sprawling wings. The mask hangs limp around Dean’s wrist, having long since made contact with its intended target, and Dean didn’t even notice the spell ending.

 

When they return to the docks, Victor and Cleric Jim are waiting for them there with a pair of stretchers.

 

“I’d have gotten one for each wing as well as his body,” Cleric Jim explains, “but they only had the two.”

 

On the docks, there is no end to the gawking, and Dean makes sure throughout that his jacket remains across Cas’ chest. His hands don’t leave Cas once during the transfer from boat to land. Cas’ body gets one stretcher, his left wing another, and the right wing, they keep folded up under Cas in a way that hopefully only looks excruciating.

 

The doctor opens the door to her practice herself. She shows them inside and keeps a calm face despite the wings and the blood sigil and the half-embedded blade. She presses on his chest so water comes out his mouth. She enlists help in turning him onto his side—his right side, on his better wing—to get more of the water out, and she puts him on his back again to continue the pumping. Both she and Cleric Jim lay their hands on him and close their eyes with the clear concentration of magic casting. After, she listens to his heart and shakes her head and Dean says, “I know this is crazy, but keep going.”

 

She keeps going.

 

She cuts off the remains of his shirt. She instructs Dean to pry off his boots. Dean gathers up these and the ruins of Cas’ belt and pouch, Hannah’s belt and pouch. He keeps his back turned while the doctor cuts Cas out of his pants too. He doesn’t turn until she assures him Cas is modest once more, because there are some memories that can’t be overwritten. The next time Dean dreams of Cas naked, he doesn’t want it to be like this.

 

Bare save for a towel across his lap, the extent of his injuries is clear. Mottled bruising lines his arms and shoulders and punctuates his knees, but nowhere is it as severe as on the side of his face. Lacerations spill down his arms and cover his chest, and not simply the lines of the sigil. His right wing might be dislocated, but the left is obviously shattered. Both sport puncture wounds.

 

The doctor bandages most of the body injuries by the time the veterinarian arrives. He takes a bit more coaxing to get to work, but Cleric Jim does the glaring on Dean’s behalf. Dean’s too busy standing around being useless.

 

He watches the vet feel along Cas’ left wing. He watches the vet measure and cut splints, and he watches the vet, the doctor and Jim do what they can. No matter how he’s moved or adjusted, Cas doesn’t wince or groan. Cas simply lies there, and lies there, and at some point, Dean started holding his cool hand. There’s no telling when, but there’s a stool under him now and he doesn’t remember seeing one at all in the operating space. Nor does he remember sitting down. Castiel’s left wing stretches out onto a second table while they focus on patching his right, and Dean sits opposite, stationed by Cas’ hip and looking at his bruised face.

 

“Where’s Victor?” Dean thinks to ask a countless number of minutes later.

 

“Still finding accommodations with Dame Jo, Highness,” Cleric Jim answers. “Come morning, Seraph Castiel will be as safe for transport as he’s going to get.” The uncertainty in his expression says even caring for these injuries might make no difference.

 

“I think he’s getting warmer,” Dean says.

 

The vet grumbles something about lake stink, but he falls silent when Dean looks up at him.

 

“There’s a puncture wound in his left wing,” Dean says. “He earned it saving my life. See to it.”

 

The vet sees to it.

 

Bandages unroll. Splints are secured. Debris and broken feathers drop into buckets. Distantly, as the doctor lays a blanket over Cas, Dean realizes they had an angel shirt back at the castle but forgot to bring it.

 

“Jim,” Dean says.

 

“Sir Dean?”

 

“When I showed you Michael’s sword, I asked you to heal it.” He’s almost certain it was Michael’s, not Gabriel’s. Something in the way Cas had reacted.

 

“Michael?” Cleric Jim repeats with a frown. “Which Michael?”

 

“Archangel Michael.”

 

The vet and the doctor both visibly double-take at that.

 

“Oh,” says Cleric Jim. “That Michael, yes. That sword. Ah. More of the same with Castiel’s?”

 

“It’s what’s keeping him alive,” Dean explains. “How strong is it?” He didn’t bring Michael’s sword for comparison, the blade too important to remove from the castle when Dean was heading in the opposite direction from Lucifer. It’s in King John’s keeping for now, and may remain there for some time.

 

Cleric Jim lays his hands on the blade, fingers curled over Cas’ forearm. Keeping his expression carefully smooth, Cleric Jim says, “It doesn’t compare to an archangel’s, I can tell you that much, Highness. It feels empty, too. Hollowed out. But there’s still more magic left in the blade than two, maybe three mages could muster.”

 

“We’re going to monitor that,” Dean instructs. There’s nothing else they can do.

 

“Yes, Highness,” Cleric Jim agrees. He asks the doctor if they might both stay here overnight with Castiel. She gives slightly begrudging permission, but Dean barely hears her. He’s too busy waiting. It seems hours until the doctor and vet are done, hours until Dean can have a private moment with an unconscious angel and his own feelings. At last, they finish what rudimentary measures they can take, and Cleric Jim herds them into the doctor’s front office on the pretense of devising a treatment plan.

 

For the first time in ten days, they are alone. The first time in even longer. Eleven. And still Cas doesn’t move or twitch or breathe.

 

“Got you, Cas,” Dean whispers nonetheless. He lifts Cas’ unresisting hand. He presses his lips to a clean bandage over split knuckles. “You’re all right, you fucking asshole, I got you.”

 

Cas’ body is devoid of response, but Dean watches for one anyway.

  
  


At some point during the day, Dean eats. At some point during the evening, he hears a debate over magics and medicines. At some point even later, he wakes up with an aching back and his hand still around Cas’.

 

“What time is it?” Dean groans, relinquishing his hold on Cas to stand up and stretch.

 

“Past ten,” Cleric Jim says, standing on Cas’ other side. By the light of an actual candle, not a magelight, Cleric Jim checks Cas’ blade yet again. “He’d still holding strong, I think.”

 

“Until the wings burn off, he’s not dead,” Dean says.

 

“So I’ve been hearing,” Cleric Jim says. “Which I imagine would be too loud an event to sleep through, so Your Highness might as well bunk down for the night.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, not moving.

 

“There’s a cot,” Cleric Jim adds. “Behind you. Thought you wouldn’t want to be separated from your fiance while he’s like this.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, somehow even more motionless than before.

 

With one wrong word, Cas could destroy every piece of King John’s cover story. A simple _we’re not engaged_ or a confused _what treaty?_ could bring it all down. All the more reason Dean can’t risk Cas waking up without him there.

 

“Highness,” Cleric Jim prompts, more firm than gentle. “You need sleep. It’s a three day journey back, and he’ll need someone to prop him up in the carriage if he’s not to put weight on his wings.”

 

“I know,” Dean says.

 

Cleric Jim sighs and comes around the operation table to Dean’s side. He sets a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “If I stayed up with him, would you sleep?”

 

“Wake me up the moment he does,” Dean orders.

 

“No fear as to that, Highness,” Cleric Jim promises. When Dean still doesn’t move, Cleric Jim’s hand on his shoulder becomes a quick rub against his back. “It’s a frightful thing, to lose the ones we love. But I won’t let him slip away from you again, not if I can help it, you can count on that.”

 

Dean nods rather than risk speaking. He clears his throat and still needs words and what comes out is, “Do you know where my jacket is?” He doesn’t need it. The room is hot, the fireplace lit for Cas’ benefit.

 

“Hanging up to dry somewhere,” Cleric Jim answers. “The rest of your clothes are with Jo and Victor at the inn. Dame Jo thought she could bait you away to a real bed if she withheld them. I would have thought your old squire would know you better.”

 

“She’s hopeful,” Dean explains.

 

Cleric Jim nods his agreement before giving Dean one last pat on the back. “Not a bad thing to be, Highness. Sleeping, sleeping is also a good thing to be.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, but he does as bid. Mostly, he lies on his side, watching Cas’ silhouette by the light of the fireplace. He listens to the logs crackle, to Cleric Jim breathe, to his own breaths and the sounds of the town beyond. He falls asleep still listening for something that isn’t there to hear.

  
  


They load Cas up into the carriage at first light. With a stomach full of breakfast and dread, Dean wonders how long Cas can go without food and drink. The disquieting answer is, apparently just as long as he can go without breathing.

 

Dean and Castiel sit on the rear seat, Dean on the right, Cas on the left. His left wing is splinted and wrapped and wrapped again against Cas’ body, and his longest feathers go down farther than the seat can allow. On his right side, however, those feathers are cut short, courtesy of Lucifer’s blade, and for this reason, Dean can keep Cas tilted against him. His arm around Cas, his chin atop the crown of Cas’ head, he sits and he holds on and he waits.

 

The carriage bounces and rumbles. The weather stays cloudy but refuses to fully rain upon them. When they change over from Jo to horses, Dean stays inside with Cas. Though Dean’s pants fit Cas just fine, Cas’ new modified shirt is loose over the bandages, and not simply because they had to slice the back open to fit over his wings. The overall effect makes him look oddly small, dwarfed by his own wings. The bruise marring his face is just as dark as it was the day before. Dean touches it gingerly but, as both expected and feared, Cas makes no sound, no attempt to avoid Dean’s probing finger.

 

Jo settles down opposite them. She hates the rear-facing seat, claims it makes her sick, but there’s not a word of complaint out of her for hours, for long, slow miles. Victor and Cleric Jim push the horses just as hard as they did on their way north, and it’s time to switch back to Jo by mid-afternoon. This shifts Victor around to the indoor position, and they more or less try to ignore each other until it’s time for the carriage to stop for the night. It’s one thing to have Jo napping across from them. It’s another to have Victor watch him physically support the angel they both, unofficially, know to be an infiltrator and attempted thief.

 

They stop at an actual roadhouse tonight, which only helps discretion so much when they’re carrying in an unconscious angel with them. They ease Cas into one of the lower bunks and Dean sleeps across from him.

 

In the morning, they get up and repeat the whole day over again. Cas doesn’t start breathing, but he doesn’t start stinking either. More and more, all he looks like is an injured man sleeping it off, eternally frozen between breaths. During the late morning changeover from Jo back to horses, Dean risks a moment of privacy for a moment of stupidity.

 

Dean has no magic. He knows this. The kingdom and perhaps the entire known world knows this. He has no magic and he is no vessel, and yet, for one pointless attempt, he tries.

 

He tilts Cas’ head. He presses his mouth to slack lips and breathes into him.

 

As it had when the doctor had done it, Cas’ chest rises, but the breath doesn’t take. Up and down, Cas’ chest goes, just the once and no more than that.

 

Nothing else happens.

 

Nothing else was ever going to.

 

“If you wake up right now, I won’t be pissed,” Dean promises, fetching yet another broom for the moon. “Wake up and I’ll forgive you.”

 

Limp against Dean’s side, Cas doesn’t wake.

 

“Fine,” Dean tells him. “Be that way.” And he reflexively holds Cas closer when Jo opens the door to climb inside.

  
  


Another night, another roadhouse.

  
  


On the final morning of speeding back to the capital, Victor decides to call him on it.

 

“I imagine you’ll have to wait until he heals for the wedding,” Victor remarks. “Has the king set a date yet?”

 

A bump in the road sets them all bouncing, and it’s almost as if Cas nuzzles against Dean’s neck. But though his hair brushes against Dean’s jaw, there’s no warm breath to accompany it. Dean smooths his hair back down in a gesture that’s grown all too natural during this journey.

 

“You’d have to ask him,” Dean replies. “I just do as I’m told. You know that, Victor. What with treason and all.”

 

“A heavy word,” Victor says.

 

Dean looks him in the eyes and says, “We need the alliance. Unless you have a better idea for stopping an archangel who can make demons at will.”

 

“No,” Victor admits after too long a pause. “But inviting in more angels who could destroy us feels foolhardy. Of course, the king must know many things I do not.”

 

The angels already have their own kingdom. They claim not to care for land, or at least not, as they phrase it, for the land below. They have powerful magic and possess such long lifespans that they could probably nap through a human monarch’s entire rule. They’ve expressed disdain toward the very idea of trade goods and declared themselves self-sufficient.

 

“The king knows many things,” Dean agrees. He adjusts his cheek atop Cas’ head. “And we will follow where he leads.”

 

“Will he?” Victor asks, nodding toward Cas. “After all, your father has never appreciated threats toward his plans. If the angel were to die now, after the kingdom has seen proof that you would have married him, His Majesty’s plans hold.”

 

And Dean did leave the archangel blade at the castle.

 

He doesn’t hesitate.

 

“When we change to horses, ride ahead,” Dean instructs. “We’ll reach the castle before Jo’s ready for a second round, so you’ll get there at least an hour before we do. Go to Sam, tell him we’re close, and let him know Cas is unconscious and dehydrated. He’ll know what to do. You tell him that, and then you take the rest of the week off unless he has further need of you.”

 

Victor weighs him with his eyes, but against what, Dean has no idea. Against King John, he almost wants to think, except Victor doesn’t seem to find him lacking in the comparison. “As you will it, Prince. Shall I report his condition beyond the unconsciousness and dehydration?”

 

“Sam already knows the rest,” Dean explains. He shrugs with his right shoulder only, so as not to jostle Cas. “It being Sam and all.”

 

Victor nods, for once not questioning something. Sam’s good for provoking that kind of lack of reaction. “And should His Majesty seek to question me?”

 

“Tell him Cas’ entire condition,” Dean replies. All the better to hide the code word. Dehydration for liquid, liquid for cups, and cups for vessels. Sam will be waiting for that signal, even if their father has already expressly forbidden him from acting upon it. It’s exactly the kind of disobedience Sam can get away with. “After all, the king should know everything.”

 

“Yes, Prince,” says Victor in the tone of a man who knows the shape of what is withheld from him.

 

“I can get Cas on board,” Dean says, no _if_ or condition about it. “Don’t worry about that.”

 

“If you’ll listen to the advice of a man three times divorced,” Victor replies, “that is a very poor way to start a marriage.”

 

Dean snorts. “It was a fucking awful way to start a courtship, but here we are.”

 

Victor very nearly grins.

  
  


Cleric Jim drives the team. Victor rides on ahead. Jo lightly dozes in the front seat. As always, the horses are jarringly slow after Jo, but Dean can feel his heart racing with them.

 

Broken and bruised, Cas lies still against him. The angel blade hasn’t sunk any deeper into his arm. For all Dean knows, Cas could stay in this exact condition for years. Dean could stow him somewhere safe until he’s certain about everything else. Dean could hide him for the rest of the day and then shove him through the portal at seven, or midnight. Dean could do a lot of things other than risking his father’s wrath and his brother’s life.

 

“Hey,” Jo says, sitting up with the slow ache of travel-stiff joints. “We there yet?”

 

Dean shakes his head, cheek brushing against Cas’ hair in a way that might be deliberate. The guy might need a more thorough scrubbing than a roadhouse sponge bath, but at least he doesn’t smell like the bottom of a lake anymore.

 

“If he doesn’t marry you, I’ll stab him,” Jo offers, like that’s something they’ve actually been talking about.

 

“Leave it,” Dean says, and Jo shrugs.

 

“If you need to do a Last Unwed Kiss in front of your dad,” she says, “me and Bobby would agree it was the first time.”

 

“I know,” Dean says. “But leave it.”

 

The carriage rattles on.

  
  


Through the outskirts, through the city proper, and up the castle road, they go. They continue past the circle where all the carriages unloaded the guests for Sam’s party and wedding, and head straight on to the mews.

 

When the carriage comes to a stop, the door opens before Dean or Jo can reach for it.

 

“Prince,” says Victor.

 

“Been a while,” Dean greets him.

 

“The angel’s to be brought upstairs, to the stable master’s apartments,” Victor says.

 

Dean goes with the obvious question. “Why?”

 

“Because this is one of the only buildings left in the palatial complex that isn’t warded,” Victor explains, which is admittedly a very good reason. “Where the stable master is staying, I couldn’t tell you.”

 

“He moved in with the head cook two weeks ago,” Jo says, climbing out of the carriage ahead of Dean. “Things have been a bit too busy for most people to notice.” She turns around, braced, as if expecting Dean to simply dump Cas’ entire weight on her. If anything, their arrival on the castle grounds makes Dean hold onto Cas more tightly than ever.

 

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asks.

 

“About that,” Victor says.

  
  


In the two hour period until Parliament takes a recess, Dean slowly goes mad. To her credit as his new sister, Jess slowly goes mad with him.

 

Or maybe Dean’s the one who goes mad with her. After the past few days they’ve both had, it’s getting hard to tell.

 

“The king knows Sam wants to heal him,” Jess tells him the moment they’re alone. As much as Dean wants to insist otherwise, Cas doesn’t really count for company at the moment. “So of course he hasn’t let Sam out of his sight for days.”

 

“Must have made for an awkward wedding night,” Dean only half-jokes.

 

“The broken leg is more of the problem there, actually,” Jess says, which is more information than Dean ever needed to know. “In any case, they’re currently putting to Parliament whether we should send Castiel back through immediately or wait until he wakes up.”

 

Careful to avoid his wing, Dean sits down on the bed next to him. His back to Cas’ face, he keeps his eyes on Cas’ boots. On his own boots, actually, the dress pair he’d worn to Sam’s wedding. Cas’ boots hadn’t survived ten days submerged in the lake, and that was the only other dry pair they’d had on hand. The trousers are Dean’s extra road pair, too. The shirt, plain and off-white, Jo had bought off… someone. Cut the slashes down the back herself.

 

He tucks the shirt back under Cas’ side. The front side, more of a front flap now, keeps trying to lift up in odd ways and leave his sides bare. If Cas’ body is warm now, does that mean he can feel cold?

 

Dean forces his mind to questions he can find answers to. “Why does Dad say he’s pro-chucking Cas through the portal?”

 

“It would speed up the treaty by allowing the angels to send another emissary,” Jess replies. “He keeps stressing that we don’t know how long it will take Cas to recover, or if he even will. Sam says the most infuriating part of His Majesty’s argument is that Sam can’t tell anyone he can wake Cas up himself.”

 

“How’s Sam countering instead?”

 

“He’s not let anyone forget for a minute that Cas saved all four of you,” Jess says. “He’s been stirring up egos, saying we have to try to return the favor ourselves.”

 

“Sensible action versus ego?” Dean says. “Sounds like Sam is going to win.”

 

“To keep him here, at least,” Jess says.

 

Nodding absently, tiredly, Dean looks around the room. As bedrooms go, it succeeds in being more room than bed. The stable master certainly has cleared out thoroughly, too; while the furniture of the apartment remains, all personal touches are gone. A desk with no chair sits in front of one window. A bookshelf and wardrobe frame the other. Though all three are of slightly mismatching wood, each appears equally empty. It’s a room in transition, and it sits with Dean poorly.

 

“We’re going to need to ward the room,” he says, sighing.

 

“Do you think Lucifer-”

 

“No,” Dean interrupts. Then, gentler: “No. But that’s what we’re going to tell people. Gotta keep that threat out while Cas is recovering.”

 

Gotta keep Cas inside, once he’s conscious. Whether Cas is severely weakened or not, he can probably bolt out of an unwarded room as easily as opening a door.

 

The door is the first thing he does, drawing with the chalk Jo brings him. She comes with the writing kit as well. She and Jess jointly remove Cas’ shirt and bandages, the better for Jo to copy the blood sigil, the better for Jess to try to heal it, after.

 

Cleric Jim had described trying to heal Cas as being like trying to spread solid metal with a paintbrush. Jess’s reaction is a less poetic, “He won’t budge.”

 

Dean wards the windowsills, not wanting to leave the warding sigil somewhere so easily seen from outside as on the panes of glass themselves. He stands on the desk and draws on the ceiling. On the rationale of mandatory bed rest, he continues on the floor, pushing aside the one remaining rug. He completes the warding as thoroughly as he’s ever completed anything, but even secure in the knowledge that Cas can’t escape, he’s still unsatisfied. He may have wondered once or thrice about confining Cas to a bed, but in those dreams, Cas had featured as an enthusiastic participant, not a political prisoner. The wards surrounding the unconscious angel are as unnerving a sight as they are a necessary one.

 

As he works, he half-listens to Jess and Jo talk magic. Jo describes the sensation of having her flames wrested away from her by King John, and Dean steadfastly does not think about Lucifer. Jess talks about Cas’ stubborn body’s refusal to let her heal him, and the pair of mages seem to find similarity in this, that maybe the magic of Cas’ life simply outclasses Jess’ ability to heal.

 

It’s all theories, all ways to bide the time, and then there’s nothing left but to wipe his hands on his pants, sit next to Cas, and wait.

  
  


When it happens, it happens like this:

 

King John has Dean’s sword. Michael’s sword. He wears it in the warded sheath Dean commissioned, a speedy turnaround at under two weeks.

 

Sam wears his gloves but Dean holds Sam’s warded shirt. If anything goes wrong, Sam is to take a step back, planting his feet on the warding sigil chalked onto the floor.

 

Jo is stationed outside the bedroom door, in the stable master’s former office, to ensure their privacy. Herself now warded, Jess is there for Sam. Bobby is ostensibly there as a security measure, though there’s very little he could actually do. Still, when the king and the back-up king are in the same room, certain things are obligatory.

 

King John wants Cas strapped down in warded restraints. Sam has a few choice words about diplomacy. King John relents, if it can be called relenting when his hand remains ever upon the archangel blade.

 

King John also wants Dean out of the room. Dean swears his silence and promises not to intervene, save where Sam’s safety is concerned. Sam adds that Dean’s presence might make Cas more willing to talk. Dean is allowed to remain.

 

With all debate settled, they take their positions. A statue of flesh, Cas lies in the center of the room. Sam remains on the side of the bed closest to the door, their father directly beside him. Opposite them, Dean leans against the desk below the window, arms crossed, hands tied. On his side is Jess, who demonstrates the proper method to administer a breath of life. She tilts Cas’ head back, pinches his nose, and breathes into him herself. His chest rises and falls, just the once.

 

“Like that,” Jess tells Sam.

 

Leaning over Cas, half-kneeling over the bed with his cast hanging off, Sam puts his gloved hands where Jess guides them. He inhales deeply, holds the breath, and lowers his head.

 

For three days, their entire journey, Cas hasn’t moved an inch. Not a breath. Not a twitch.

 

The second Sam touches him directly, Cas’ entire body jerks. His feet, his fingers. His wings, the left straining against the splints. The red lines cut into his chest pull together. A deeper wound in his side begins to close up. The immense bruise of his face lightens. The blade set into his left arm, however, doesn’t sink in any further.

 

Sam holds on and exhales steadily. He lifts off, inhales, and goes back in, already looking paler than he should. Jess moves forward, but Sam waves her back, his other gloved hand still on Cas’ forehead. He exhales a second time.

 

Cas’ hand flies up off the bed.

 

In rapid, heart-stopping succession, Cas grabs Sam by the back of the head, fists his hand in Sam’s long hair—and pulls Sam off him.

 

He coughs in Sam’s face. Twice.

 

Then, squinting, still holding Sam by the hair and using the most offended tone Dean has ever heard out of him, Cas rasps, “You’re not Dean.”

 

An incredulous laugh bursts out of Sam, coughed on or not. “Um. No.”

 

Cas drops his hand. It falls to the bed like a dead weight, landing atop his half-folded wing. His eyes fall shut even faster.  “Prince Samuel.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Eyes still closed, Cas rises lopsidedly, his right wing pushing him up to a sitting position. His bones audibly grind together, perhaps fusing together, perhaps being injured further. Long feathers splay and shift across the bed. Splinted, his left wing shifts as an awkward burden, not quite fitting between angel and bed. “Where’s-”

 

“He’s fine,” Sam says, pointing. Sweat shines on his face, and his finger slowly zigzags through the air. “He’s here.”

 

Head fighting to loll, Cas opens his eyes. They’re the natural dark blue Dean knows best, not the shining white-blue of his magic. They’re also unfocused and even more squinty than usual.

 

“Dean,” Cas says, staring, and then collapses back down so quickly Dean nearly goes to him.

 

“You saved us, he’s fine,” Sam promises. He shifts out of his half-kneel, instead sitting next to Cas’ splinted wing on the bed.

 

“Sam, move away,” King John orders. The archangel blade isn’t yet fully drawn, but it’s a close thing, especially after the grab to Sam’s hair.

 

“I’m fine here,” Sam says.

 

“I won’t tell you again,” King John says.

 

“Sammy,” Dean interrupts before Sam can shoot his mouth off. With that one snapped word, all of Cas’ feathers press down in a rippling wave of retreat. It’s bizarre and mesmerizing, and it takes Dean a second to add, “Put your shirt on.” Dean hands the garment to Jess, who rounds the bed in an instant.

 

As expected, when Jess holds it out, Sam offers no resistance. Standing behind Sam, Jess slides it up Sam’s arms, and she winks at Dean over Sam’s shoulder, as privy to Dean’s strategy as if Dean had actually told her.

 

“You don’t look as drained as you did the last time,” Jess says to her husband, “but I’d feel better if you laid down. Reviving two angels in two weeks is too much for anyone.”

 

Cas makes a faint noise, and it’s louder than anything else in the room. “Two weeks?”

 

“It’s May sixteenth,” Jess tells him. With a forgiving smile, she adds “You missed the wedding,” as if Cas had actually been invited.

 

“Congratulations,” Cas says, seemingly of his mouth’s own volition. He tries to lift his head again. His gaze wobbles from Sam and Jess to King John and Bobby without ever venturing toward Dean on his other side. “Your Majesty.”

 

“Seraph Castiel,” King John replies.

 

“Your Majesty is looking well,” Cas says in an undisguised assault of manners.

 

“I cannot say the same of you,” King John replies with chilly formality. “Though your blood sigil didn’t treat you as poorly as it might have. Why is that?”

 

“I… don’t know,” Cas says.

 

It’s awful, how Dean still wants to believe him.

 

“Uh-huh,” Dean says instead. “Check your arm.”

 

Lying on his back, Cas reaches his left hand to his right forearm before seeming to realize his left hand is already full, the hilt of his blade fused with his palm. Frowning with his eyes, his feathers slowly flattening, Cas stares at the blade sunk into his forearm, holding his arm over his face. Slowly, with his right hand, he prods the blade. The line of it shines blue-white, matched by the abrupt blaze in his eyes. Moving against gravity, it sinks into him fully. Though the light fades from Cas’ eyes, his alertness visibly increases tenfold.

 

Again sitting up with the use of his right wing, this time with no grinding sounds and with his head held high, Cas flexes his bare arm. It makes a loud popping noise. “I still don’t…” He tilts his head. “...Ah.”

 

“You expect us to believe that was dumb luck?” Dean demands.

 

“I don’t expect you to believe most of it was,” Cas replies. He meets Dean’s gaze, but only for a moment, no defiance in it. There is more defeat in the lowering of his eyes than there was in every crack of his breaking bones.

 

King John’s eyes burn into the side of Dean’s face, and Dean struggles to obey the unspoken order: he must not be swayed. Not by Cas’ words, not by the dignity of his pain, and not by the urging of his own body to hold Cas close until that pain stops.

 

Dean knows he’s failed when King John says, “Dean, your brother needs to lie down. Help him back to his rooms.”

 

“I have Jess,” Sam argues, still sweaty, still pale.

 

“Sam, don’t worry your wife,” King John orders without a trace of irony. “Dean. Now.”

 

“Sir,” Dean says. He pushes off the desk and rounds the bed to Sam, moving between King John and Cas to do so. He looks at neither of them, only Sam, the only way to make this manageable.

 

Sam, of course, looks three seconds away from putting up a fight, but Dean doesn’t expect anything else. Neither, apparently, does Jess. She loops her arm around Sam’s waist, and though he doesn’t lean into her, he doesn’t reject the support either.

 

“Thank you for bringing him back to me,” she tells Cas.

 

Cas nods, more tired than gracious. He keeps trying to shift his left wing, the feathers too long to let him sit up comfortably, the way it’s folded. The blatant motion turns both wings unreal, a once-convincing costume rendered uncanny. His coloring is still worse than Sam’s, and not just the bruise still haunting his face. He’s too pale all the way down his chest, a sallow bloodlessness that has nothing to do with skin tone. “Thank you for reviving me, Your Highness.”

 

“Sam,” Sam corrects, as good as spitting in their father’s face. “You save my life, you call me Sam.”

 

Squinting his confusion, Cas looks up at the sigils on the ceiling, the walls, the door. “An odd privilege to bestow upon a prisoner, but I thank you for it.”

 

The room goes quiet, but no one contradicts.

 

“Dean, your brother is still here,” King John says.

 

“Sammy,” Dean says, taking Sam by the shoulder.

 

“We’ll speak more later,” Sam promises Cas, like they’re suddenly friends now. Then, as if he hasn’t defied King John more in five minutes than Dean does in a year, Sam compounds it by turning to Dean and asking, seemingly of his own volition, “Dean, will you help me down the stairs?”

 

“Yeah, you got it,” Dean says.

 

Jess gets the door, and on the other side, Jo moves out of the way to let Sam and his cane pass. With the weight of Cas’ eyes pressing down on him, Dean refuses to look back, but his eyes don’t listen. His neck turns and his eyes seek, and there’s Cas. A fusion of nightmare and dream, drained and half broken, he sits shirtless on a bed, looking at Dean like the sight of him is the only thing keeping Cas alive.

 

Dean follows his brother out the door, and he orders Jo to close it behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see what else I'm up to or get (potentially) faster responses to questions and comments, follow me on [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, everybody, and I hope you enjoyed one of the images that gave rise to the rest of the fic: True Love's Brother's Kiss.


	13. Recovery

When Dean leaves, the world does not fade. No new disaster descends, and Castiel gains no fresh physical injury.

 

And yet.

 

“I have questions,” King John says to him, “and it would be best if you had answers.”

 

Beside him, a man Castiel tentatively recognizes as Sir Robert stands with his arms crossed. Though he wears a sword, it’s unlikely the blade could truly harm Castiel, even in his weakened state. It is King John himself who serves as the threat, Dean’s blade—Michael’s—on his hip.

 

Castiel’s reflexes are slowed. His mobility is hindered and his space to maneuver is sorely limited. His wings are once again bound, more securely than for the party, and even with Prince Samuel’s healing, he doesn’t yet risk moving them. Beyond the bed beneath him, he strongly doubts he can touch any other surface in this room. Manifesting his own blade would expend far too much of his grace, and it’s possible he’s not alert enough if all the dangers he sees are those of an outright attack.

 

Very possible.

 

Closer to certain.

 

He assesses: His head seeks to tilt. His eyes fight to close. His wings feel tender, full of aching joints and itching feathers. The faded shape of the banishment sigil still burns in his skin, irritated even without the covering of a shirt.

 

He shifts from an awkward position on his rear into a proper method of sitting, his legs folded beneath him, knees together, feet pointing back. The motion is far more difficult than it should be, and both humans look as if they want to back away when Castiel’s right wing gives even a partial flap for balance. He leaves broken and cut feathers on the bed. A few more, pushed out by new growth, fall with the flapping.

 

Through these movements, his body tells him his injuries, though largely healed by Prince Samuel, are otherwise fresh. He only has Lady Jessica’s word that two weeks have passed, a strange detail in itself. Why wait two weeks to revive him? Prince Samuel’s own diminished condition, perhaps? But why keep his body so long instead of sending him back?

 

“The outcome of this mess hinges on whether I can trust you,” King John continues. “That trust depends on your truthfulness.”

 

When King John waits for an answer, Castiel replies, “I understand, Your Majesty.”

 

Almost imperceptibly, Sir Robert nods. Quietly coaching Castiel, or reinforcing King John’s demands?

 

The first of those demands: “Why did you come here?”

 

“To secure a tablet.” They must already know that much. He did ask Dean for it, explicitly.

 

“What does this tablet do?”

 

“It completes the second half of a ploy to combat Lucifer’s demons,” Castiel replies with the safest phrasing he can muster. “We had thought the first half would banish Lucifer himself as well, but a loophole in the enchantment allowed him to remain in this world. Where is he?”

 

“You answer my questions,” King John states. “Not I yours. Again: what does this tablet do?”

 

“The first tablet banished angels and demons in equal measures of power, in opposite directions. Needing to hoist them into oblivion, we used ourselves as ballast. The second was meant to free us, and us alone, trapping the demons but returning us to the world we were born in and fought for,” Castiel answers. “Our own banishment was meant to be perhaps an hour in length.”

 

He forces his mind away from the desperation of that day. The disorganization and the bereavements, the assumption that the return tablet had been carried by a freshly deceased angel and thus left behind by pure accident. Their horror. Their despair. All of it, perhaps, on Uriel’s shoulders. And so he forces his mind away.

 

He focuses his eyes instead, and he studies King John to the best of his limited ability. “But you already know this,” he concludes. “I told Sir Dean of the portal, and it should allow for some degree of communication.”

 

“It does,” King John agrees. The hard look to his eyes is at once identical to Dean’s and entirely different; there is nothing attractive to it. “It allows me to verify the truth of your answers.”

 

“Given that I have just woken from near death-”

 

“You will answer what I ask,” King John orders. “Did you come here to steal from us?”

 

“I came to reclaim what is ours,” Castiel answers. “Though I do not have intricate knowledge of human property laws, I know the tablet is still ours, according to our own.”

 

“If your claim was legitimate, you would have made it directly,” King John counters. “Instead, you came here by use of subterfuge.”

 

“Within seven centuries, you forget us,” Castiel says. “What direct claim is to be made when our existence itself is considered a claim, and an unfounded one?”

 

After combating an archangel, watching a human attempt to loom, even Dean’s father, is laughable. Unaware of Castiel’s mental comparison, King John makes the attempt all the same. “Did you or did you not seek to infiltrate my castle?”

 

“I came by order of Archangel Raphael, under the invitation of Seer Shurley,” Castiel answers. “I presented that invitation to your guards each night. If that is how you term infiltration, then yes, I infiltrated.”

 

“You approached my son to aid you in this theft.”

 

“I was approached _by_ Your Majesty’s son,” Castiel corrects.

 

“You used him,” King John states, landing the first solid blow. “Do you deny that?”

 

“I asked for his aid,” Castiel replies, refusing to lower his eyes or duck his head. “I couched my request in euphemisms of humanity, but I did not lie to him and I did not force him.”

 

“You told him this stone tablet would unleash an army of powerful creatures upon our world?” King John demands.

 

“The night I met him, I informed Prince Dean there was a tablet that could return angels to this world,” Castiel replies. “It was he who dismissed the idea.”

 

“And it was you who begged our resources under false pretenses,” King John replies. “Tell me, how am I to trust you? How am I to trust a _species_ of you when all I have seen is the father of demons and a liar who would make my son a fool?”

 

The binding on his left wing grows tight as his feathers seek to flare. Control over his body too difficult, Castiel focuses on control over his tongue. “Are you alive, or dead?” Castiel demands in return. Sir Robert’s eyes grow wide in warning, but Castiel persists. “Is the queen alive, or dead? Your sons? You may regard my dispute with Lucifer as separate from your own, but I did not need to save you.”

 

“I know damage control when I see it,” King John tells him. “I’ve had to do enough of it these past weeks because of you.”

 

“Without me or another angel in my place, you would be dead, and Lucifer would be growing strong off Prince Samuel’s vitality,” Castiel continues.

 

“One happy coincidence does not repair a deliberate deceit,” says King John, and Castiel knows the anger in the set of his jaw.

 

“Are you defending your kingdom or your son?” Castiel asks.

 

“You answer my questions, seraph. Not I yours.”

 

“I have heard no questions, human,” Castiel replies, tired and wounded as much with regret as injury. “I have heard accusations, and I have answered these. If you seek solutions going forward, I do not have the authority to negotiate on behalf of my people. If you seek the specific reasoning behind my orders, I can only presume to know it. But if you wish to know the rationale behind my actions and my actions alone, that I can answer.”

 

“You will keep a civil tongue,” King John orders.

 

“I awoke minutes ago from a fight to the death,” Castiel reminds him. “Forgive me for a difficult transition.”

 

Sir Robert clears his throat.

 

Without looking to the other human, King John gestures for Sir Robert to speak.

 

“About that fight to the death business,” Sir Robert says. “The other angels say it might take Lucifer months to wake up from what you did to him, but they’re guessin’. How long would you say?”

 

Castiel stares at him. He readjusts much more slowly than he should. He calculates with rough estimates, the simple mathematics of it as difficult as intricate enchanting. “No longer than two months. Had I been at full strength against his diminished state, it could have been as many as five. Perhaps six. No longer than that.”

 

Sir Robert hooks both thumbs into his belt. “Do you know how to find him?”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I imagine his demons are searching for him. I also imagine Her Majesty is using her talent to track the omens of their activities.”

 

“We already got that part,” Sir Robert confirms, nodding. “But you got nothing of his? Nothing we could use to track him down the way we did you.”

 

“You…” Castiel remembers to frown with his face, for added clarity. “You ‘tracked me down’?”

 

“Blasted your fool self most of the way to the coast,” Sir Robert tells him.

 

For a moment, but only a moment, Castiel’s mind stalls with questions of his own. Had the grace in his blood pushed against the grace in his blade? It’s the only explanation he can think of.

 

Instead of asking the humans their thoughts on the matter, Castiel states, “Then you can use that distance to estimate how far Lucifer fell. He should be closer, perhaps significantly.”

 

“‘Perhaps,’ he says,” Sir Robert remarks to King John.

 

“If my body had stayed where it should have, I’d have a better estimate,” Castiel explains. “But it’s likely the power that would have thrown him alone was lessened by throwing us both.”

 

Sir Robert simply nods. “It’s a smaller range than we had.”

 

“Your plan is to find him and slay him before he wakes,” Castiel assumes, taking a significant look at the blade King John wears. “You would risk your own people rather than release us in exchange for our assistance?”

 

“To free you is to risk my own people,” King John states, a truth Castiel would prefer not to admit to.

 

“My people, or me?” Castiel asks. The humans’ current language doesn’t differentiate between plural or singular second person, and this is abruptly more irritating than it has the right to be. Conversing is difficult enough without these complications.

 

“Both,” King John says in the tone of a man stating the obvious.

 

He is.

 

“If it has already been two weeks, then you have six more before he wakes, at the very most,” Castiel reminds the king. Needlessly, judging by the set of the human’s jaw. “I posit that we are a better risk than he is. You know how to ward against us. If you copied the sigil from my chest, you know how to throw us great distances. At present, the only member of my species who bears you ill will is the one we would aid you against.”

 

“At present,” King John repeats. “And when Archangel Raphael wishes to take my son?”

 

“Does he have cause to take your son?” Castiel asks. He glances to Sir Robert, who seems to follow the conversation and therefore must already know of Prince Samuel’s ability.

 

“He has been asking questions,” King John says. “And so I ask you again: why should I risk another archangel taking my son?”

 

“In such a situation, Prince Samuel would be warded,” Castiel states, having already seen the pattern on the shirt Dean had carried for his brother. His bones had grown heavy at the sight, thinking it belonged to Dean. “If he has refused to have himself tattooed for my sake, His Highness no longer need refrain. But if we can swiftly put an end to Lucifer, Archangel Raphael will have no cause to look to your son.”

 

“If you think to tell me that an angel with power does not seek further power, I need only point to Lucifer,” King John says.

 

“Lucifer is Archangel Raphael’s only match in strength,” Castiel replies. He sits more heavily on his heels, and he fights the urge to roll his shoulders against the healing ache of his wings. “The only blades in existence that may kill him are Raphael’s and Sir Dean’s, the one you currently carry.” The distinction is important. It was Michael’s. It is Dean’s. It will not be King John’s.

 

Castiel continues, “With Lucifer gone, to take a vessel to bolster his power would smack of insecurity, and for any other angel to attempt to take Prince Samuel would be a flagrant indication to usurp.” Unless another set of archangels are ready to hatch, Raphael’s power over Heaven should be undisputed. “Archangel Raphael would strike down that angel himself, in his own defense.”

 

“You will understand if I don’t take you at your word,” King John says.

 

“I promised Dean I would tell no one of Prince Samuel’s second talent,” Castiel says. “I have not, and you have inquiries from Archangel Raphael to prove it. Perhaps my word is worth taking.”

 

Both of the humans watch him with their expressions shifted. The nuances are lost on Castiel.

 

Sir Robert rocks forward on the balls of his feet and King John again indicates for him to speak.

 

“Odd thing for a spy to promise,” Sir Robert remarks.

 

“It would be, were I a spy,” Castiel replies. “I seek to restore my people, not to destabilize yours.”

 

“For someone who just woke up, your speech is very fine,” King John says, his voice laden with mistrust. “One might even say practiced.”

 

“I had thought to apologize to your son, once my people were free,” Castiel says, not lies. Even with his cowardice still burning inside him, even with his resolve to never see Dean again after the end of Prince Samuel’s party, it is not a lie.

 

Consideration is not the same as intention.

 

“And what exactly are you saying sorry for?” Sir Robert asks without securing the king’s permission.

 

“I encouraged his affections,” Castiel says, at once admitting the obvious and confessing what he considers his only true crime. “I sought his assistance in my task and I could not risk losing that aid to rejection.”

 

“Just say you used him,” Sir Robert instructs. “It’s shorter.”

 

“I used him,” Castiel agrees, and despite his exhaustion, despite the ache and the itch, he keeps himself steady. His feathers don’t flatten in fear or flare in defiance. He is in control.

 

“He deserves better,” Sir Robert says, as if daring Castiel to disagree.

 

When Castiel’s head ducks in shame, he turns it into a nod. His body wants to fall forward out of his kneel into a better position of rest, his wings spread to soak up the sun, but he cannot and so he does not.

 

“What kind of apology would you be willing to make?” Sir Robert asks.

 

“What apology are you asking of me?” Castiel counters.

 

“There is a rumor,” King John says, “spreading through my kingdom. When you were lost and presumed dead, it was well enough in hand.”

 

“Then I will fly south under cover of night, and no one need know I live,” Castiel replies, accepting whatever reputation it is that he has earned. Among humans, it will hardly last. “I have no business within Your Majesty’s kingdom. No true angel does with the lowlands.”

 

“You were hunted too visibly,” King John tells him. “Your recovery was too public.”

 

Castiel settles back on his heels, his head cocked to the side. “Then what is this rumor?”

 

Standing tall, his face a treatise on human expressions of displeasure, King John states, “It is said that my son proposed to you.”

 

If Castiel’s bones had grown heavy at the sight of Dean warded against him, that is nothing compared to what they do now. They are stone. They are metal. They are magnets in a world of iron.

 

His feathers stationary, Castiel looks from King John to Sir Robert. He looks to King John once more. He looks to the blade on King John’s hip and at the fire in the mage king’s eyes at the question.

 

He gambles.

 

“I took the blade from Sir Dean,” Castiel replies. “He did not give it to me.”

 

King John frowns with his shoulders as well as his face. He looms with the tempered anger of the dignified when mocked. “That is not what I asked you.”

 

Castiel looks between the two humans again in mimicry of confusion. “You ask me if your son proposed, and I tell you he made no offer of his blade. It was not freely given. And I did not take in it some… overture. As I told you, an archangel’s blade is required to slay an archangel, and I knew it to be Michael’s when I touched it. That is all.”

 

The two humans look at each other, and back to Castiel.

 

Castiel continues, “If my fighting with his blade has been misconstrued… Is that why Your Majesty wears it now? To distance Sir Dean from it?”

 

“Angels propose by swapping swords,” Sir Robert half-says, half-asks.

 

“It’s how we wed, yes,” Castiel replies.

 

“The king is asking,” Sir Robert says, “if Sir Dean proposed in the human way.”

 

“Wherein he would kiss someone else, and then me,” Castiel says, as if needing to confirm.

 

“That would be it, yeah,” Sir Robert says.

 

“I observed him kissing no one that night, myself included,” Castiel states truthfully, if not honestly.

 

“And yet the rumor persists,” King John says, “and has made its way into policy.”

 

Turning his head, Castiel remembers to frown with his face. Like most movement, this causes pain, but as with most pain, he endures.

 

“Humans have ways of cementing treaties that I have learned angels do not,” King John continues. “If any agreement between us is to exist, I require collateral.”

 

“We have no material possessions,” Castiel informs him. It is how humans barter, and Raphael is too proud to become a debtor.

 

“A different collateral,” King John states, and Castiel attempts to bend his mind around a very foreign manner of thought.

 

At last, he reports his one concrete finding: “I don’t understand.”

 

King John merely looks at him as if increased staring will lead Castiel to a better conclusion.

 

Castiel looks at Sir Robert instead.

 

Sir Robert lifts his eyes to the ceiling before asking, “You know what a political marriage is?”

 

“A human union to reconcile and bind two parties,” Castiel answers, a memorized definition relayed with foreboding.

 

“Any union, purely human or not,” King John corrects.

 

It occurs to Castiel that, perhaps, if he stretches out his left wing from its bindings, he might be able to free it. The majority of his clipped feathers have regrown on his right wing. When he’d looked to Dean earlier, he’d been unable to hold the man’s gaze and had instead let his eyes slip sideways, toward the windows. The glass itself hadn’t been warded.

 

If Castiel is very careful about it, he could, possibly, jump out the closer window and fly a limping distance. The mismatching length of his flight feathers will be an issue, but if he can muster the energy to manifest his blade, he can trim the left side to match. With wind to help him, he’d still be able to fly away.

 

...But to what end?

 

The humans must have the portal protected. While the other angels can change the location of the portal’s opening, Castiel has no means of telling them where and when.

 

Most damning of all, the only way to gain the tablet is now through gaining trust, and Castiel has already clipped his own wings severely in that regard.

 

Castiel reins himself in. He lowers himself from a standing to a sitting kneel, uncertain of when he’d risen, and he pulls in his wings to match. He will be calm. He will be reasonable, and thereby make them see reason.

 

“If Your Majesty might state your goals explicitly, I might better answer them,” he says.

 

“If we are to be allies, it must be seen that you came here honorably,” King John tells him. “Before I can agree with Archangel Raphael that you are an emissary, not an infiltrator, you must comply with that role.”

 

“I fail to see how that role includes marriage,” Castiel replies.

 

“If we are to say you courted my son honorably, we are to expect an honorable outcome. Whatever happened between you, half the kingdom is convinced the marriage is already arranged.”

 

What a strange thing, to be thought a creature of seduction. In the back of his mind, Castiel can hear Balthazar laughing. See the tilt and curl of Hannah’s wings, and observe the way Uriel-

 

No.

 

He will not think of Uriel.

 

Forcing, ever forcing his straining mind to the task before him, Castiel questions, “You truly intend to barter your son’s happiness to save face?”

 

“To secure the safety and trust of my people,” King John corrects. “This is how we secure alliances in our world, angel. Surely that can’t have changed since you left it.”

 

“If you seek my services as a soldier or bodyguard, I am sure Archangel Raphael will offer them to you,” Castiel replies. It would serve as a convenient means of exiling him for his failure. “But until I see an order written in his blood, so I may touch his grace and know the words to be his own, I will not comply with your demand.”

 

There will be no such order. It’s ludicrous, impossible for an unwilling angel to wed.

 

Something in King John’s face shifts, but, more importantly, Sir Robert shifts where he stands.

 

“You’ve already asked him,” Castiel guesses. “He’s already refused.”

 

“You are permitted to accept,” King John informs him. “He specified that you would wed in the human fashion.”

 

“Then I am permitted to refuse,” Castiel says. “If you wish to save face so badly, I sacrifice my standing. Was-” he mustn’t falter “-was Uriel killed for treason?”

 

Sir Robert nods.

 

“Then,” Castiel says, voice steady, “it would be improper for a prince to wed the brother of a traitor. Let that be known. Any supposed arrangement between us was reached before Uriel’s deceit was discovered. I am now disqualified.”

 

Too late, Castiel sees the clash between reason and obstinacy. There is no debate with King John, only perceived disrespect.

 

“If I cannot trust you to do as you are told, how can I trust you,” says King John.

 

“I am telling you, you can have what you want without sacrificing Dean,” Castiel insists.

 

King John looks at him with cold anger. “How convenient, that you now begin to care.”

 

His flight feathers flare. He does not permit his wings to arch, too constrained by will and bandages and the room itself, but though the motion may be hidden by the position of his body, he cannot stop his feathers from flaring in his exhausted agitation. “Would Your Majesty prefer I never begin?”

 

“I would prefer you obey. Unless you would prefer Archangel Raphael to know you concealed my son’s status as a vessel from him.”

 

A threat against his heir is an empty threat against Castiel. Unless Raphael has already pieced it together on his own, of course, giving King John nothing to lose. Accordingly, Castiel smooths his wings and holds his head high against either possibility. “Tell him what you will. When Lucifer awakens, you will need our aid. You will send the tablet through. When my people are free, I will face whatever fate is in store for me.”

 

“Shall we test that?” King John asks, and though his hand is not on the hilt of Dean’s sword, it hints at the motion from where it rests upon his belt.

 

Sir Robert clears his throat.

 

Castiel looks to him, and rather than wait for the king’s permission, he prompts, “Sir Robert?”

 

Arms crossed, Sir Robert asks, “You still want to apologize to Dean?”

 

“I would need a larger apology, to do as you ask,” Castiel says.

 

“If he asked you himself,” Sir Robert says, “would you consider that?”

 

“A proposal under duress is no proposal at all,” Castiel replies. “He would do as His Majesty orders.”

 

“Because he is a loyal son,” King John states, “and I will not see him mocked by our enemies for the fool you’ve made of him.”

 

“I will not marry an unwilling man,” Castiel tells him. “I _cannot_. Archangel Raphael insisted on a human ceremony because in an angelic one, Dean would not be able to take my blade without being stabbed.”

 

“Your concern for my son comes far too late,” King John says. “Do not claim loyalty to him. I have many conditions regarding that tablet, but this is the only one I lay upon you, and you refuse for some other reason. What is it?”

 

“Your willingness to deny the truth does not obligate me to lie,” Castiel answers. “I have given you my reasons.”

 

“You have given us your reasons before, under the guise of a human scholar,” King John tells him. “I see no cause to trust them now.”

 

“You would bind someone you do not trust to your son?”

 

“I would trust my son to contain you,” King John says, a boast that would be laughable if Castiel didn’t know it to be true.

 

“Find another leash, and I will be leashed,” Castiel promises. “But not that one.”

 

Before King John can speak, Sir Robert touches his shoulder. The touch is light, barely a fingertip, and clearly a liberty taken. Sir Robert keeps a lowered head, perfunctory deference. The tense formality is at odds with the familiar way Sir Robert merely has to raise his eyebrows and tilt his head at Castiel to be understood by the king.

 

King John nods in return. To Castiel, he says, “I will excuse your lack of manners today. You are disoriented and clearly need time to recover.”

 

“You owe me your life,” Castiel says. “Yours, the queen’s, and Prince Samuel’s. Renege on this one matter, and you will owe me nothing.”

 

“As an emissary sent to secure an alliance, you were of course under orders to protect us,” King John informs him. “Remember that.” He gestures to Sir Robert, who opens the door for him. “We’ll speak again after you’ve had time to understand your situation.”

 

King John steps outside and continues beyond Castiel’s sight without breaking stride. Sir Robert, however, is slower. Keeping an eye on Castiel the entire time he has the door opened, he turns to face Castiel as he exits.

 

His human face, already difficult to read, is further obscured by his facial hair. But his mustache rustles in a way strangely similar to the joy of wings, and he doesn’t look upon Castiel with the hatred one would assume for the knight who had once taken Dean as his squire.

 

Instead, in a motion Castiel knows only on another face, Sir Robert closes one of his eyes, only the one.

 

Then he shuts the door and leaves, trapping Castiel alone with his thoughts, the wards, and far too many questions.

  
  


If Castiel rests his head on the foot of the bed, he can see the sky through the window over the desk. The window is between a curiously empty bookshelf and a presumably empty wardrobe. When he sits up, it shows him only the sides of two buildings. Occasionally, he wonders whose room he’s in. Largely, he tries not to wonder at all.

 

The sky is a thin blue. A wave of stratocumulus clouds crawls across it. Low and lumpy, they stretch apart under a slow wind Castiel can observe but not feel.

 

The thin blue pales further. Distantly, the clock tower chimes yet another hour. Exhaustion weighing him down, Castiel lies with his cheek on folded arms, his left wing bound, his right wing stretched over the bed as far as the warding on the walls and floor will permit. His flight feathers rest on the desk and long to reach through the wall. The blanket of the bed feels strange against his bare chest. Perhaps being left without a shirt was meant to unnerve him.

 

Again, he tries not to wonder.

 

There are sounds from outside the door, the light footsteps of a guard stationed a full room away. If Castiel called for them, they might come. They might view the warding with surprise, or they might already know Castiel as a prisoner. He does not call.

 

His eyes fight to close. Each time they succeed, his mind tilts away from his body. Each time he falls within himself, he jerks back to a higher level of awareness, but only barely. He hasn’t felt this since the aftermath of his dealings with the Archdemon Alistair: he’s falling asleep.

 

He looks at the sky instead, and it keeps him conscious. His wings itch as new feathers fledge, pushing out the older, damaged ones. His muscles ache as his grace knits them back together. His face felt tender upon his arms when he’d first laid down, but it has long since stopped.

 

The room grows dim, the magelights set into sconces on the walls only partially illuminated, set for a much earlier hour. The sky grows dim. The clock tower tolls. The portal must be open now. Minutes later, the portal must be closed. The thin blue fades through white to orange, tinged with red.

 

More sounds come from outside the door. New, heavier footsteps that make Castiel close his eyes tight. They come up a staircase. A hint of lowered voices. The lighter footsteps recede down that staircase. A door opens, and the heavier footsteps cross the room next to Castiel’s.

 

Castiel would pull his right wing up to cover his head as a fledgling might, but that would only block his own view of the sky, not shield him from the door. He would pull his left wing up, but he hasn’t bothered to free it from its bindings and he won’t risk making a display of force now.

 

Ultimately, cowardice takes refuge in the excuse of exhaustion. He lies where he is, head turned away from the door, his cheek upon his bare forearms.

 

The door opens. Air shifts. Cloth scrapes against cloth.

 

A footstep. Another.

 

The door closes, and they are alone.

 

For a moment, there is silence. And then it begins, acerbic and sharp. “There a reason you’re lying upside-down? Angels orient to the west? You like to put your boots on pillows? What?”

 

In reply, Castiel lifts his first two flight feathers from the desk, pointing to the window.

 

More silence. What a pathetic sight Castiel must make, half bound, half sprawling, lying on his stomach with the down of his back exposed. He retracts his wing from its half-stretch on the desk, the better to cover himself. He does not lift his head. He does not look.

 

The red of the sky is lighter now, the gray blue above it turning darker. Footsteps pass by Castiel’s head, and his view is blocked. Dean sits on the desk, his legs splayed as if the missing chair is still an obstacle. He sets a thick, metal cylinder to the side, standing it on its end. His eyes are cast downward, focused on the bag he slings off his shoulder.

 

“The word is that you’re resting,” Dean says, now looking inside the bag. He reaches inside and pulls out a thick codex. This goes on the desk beside him. Two more codices follow. “Sam sends reading material,” he explains. “Our history as we know it.”

 

Dean looks at him then. The dim lighting of the room turns his features sharp, or perhaps that’s due to the unsheathed daggers of his eyes.

 

Already lying on his stomach, Castiel flattens further. Dean’s eyes rove across him in a way they’ve never done before, clinical and analyzing, the investigation of a hunter. Should Dean equate humanity with personhood, Castiel is a person no longer.

 

“You look like shit,” Dean tells him.

 

Dean looks tired. He wears exhaustion the way Castiel wishes he himself could wear it; like a light covering, something to be wrapped in without becoming encumbered by it. The banked embers of Dean’s sustained anger crackle beneath that layer, visible each time that covering pulls away.

 

He is very beautiful.

 

“You gonna talk to me?” Dean asks. For now, he is still asking.

 

Trusting his voice even less than his heart, Castiel nods his head against his arms.

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean snatches the metal canister off the desk and holds it out. “Here.”

 

Using only his arms, Castiel pushes himself up. Aching, turning, he lets his left wing hang off the end of the bed. His right is more difficult to place, and he settles for folding it high at an angle, flight feathers slanted across his feet where he kneels. Trapped on a piece of furniture designed for another species, he sways too much. He is very aware of the skin of his chest, his arms, his neck.

 

All this, Dean watches. His face grows harder and harder, the comfort of his mouth vanishing almost entirely.

 

“What is it?” Castiel asks, not yet reaching for the canister. His voice rasps up his throat.

 

“Chicken broth with rice,” Dean says. “Figured Dad may have ‘forgotten’ to feed you.”

 

Castiel tilts his head, and not merely to help keep his balance. “Is this a test?”

 

Dean’s expression does something Castiel cannot track. “Cas, this is a thermos.”

 

“You bring me a liquid, and the wards are in chalk,” Castiel states. “Is this a test?”

 

An even faster, more complex motion crosses Dean’s face. He withdraws the thermos. “It wasn’t.”

 

“If angels needed to eat, we would have starved to death by now,” Castiel tells him.

 

Slowly, Dean nods. He places the thermos behind the books. Then he leans forward, elbows on knees, and stares Castiel down.

 

“You lied to my dad,” Dean states.

 

In clear demonstration of the severity of the situation, Castiel replies, “I’m afraid Your Highness will need to be more specific.”

 

Dean’s face darkens. “Don’t you fucking call me that.”

 

“Then-”

 

“Don’t call me anything,” Dean orders, somehow enraged by words of respect. “You lied to the king. He asked you if I’d proposed, and you lied to his face. Why?”

 

Castiel frowns so deeply it nearly throws him off balance. He schools his wings back with his faltering control, but Dean has already thoroughly seen, his eyes round and staring. “If the king knew I’d lied, he’d be here. How does Sir Robert know what your father does not?”

 

“You’re not asking the questions here,” Dean snaps. “You’re in a pile of shit, and we’ve already caught you out lying again. Why?”

 

“Only you and Sir Robert know,” Castiel reasons. “Sir Robert could have reported me immediately. You could have told the king, but you’re here instead. Why?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean says. “Maybe to ask you the same damn question three times in a row? Why did you lie to him?”

 

“I feigned confusion,” Castiel answers, speaking to Dean’s left knee. “I presumed you hadn’t told him and felt our stories should match. Had you told him, I thought the excuse of cultural differences should serve to cover my ignorance.”

 

“So you spew some bullshit about swords,” Dean says.

 

At this, Castiel manages to face him. “It wasn’t ‘bullshit.’ The exchange of blades, taking another angel’s grace inside your body, it’s how we marry.” He runs a finger down the inside of his forearm. “And unless done willingly by both parties, it results in stabbing. The same is true of a memento blade: it’s why Hannah carries our sister’s blade within her, but Lucifer had to keep Michael’s in a box.” He doesn’t dare think of Uriel, of whether he’d manifested his blade before he was executed. He doesn’t dare think of many things.

 

Dean waves his hand as if batting Castiel’s words out of the air. “Are you saying you lied to my dad to cover for me?”

 

Castiel nods. Before Dean can ask why, he answers, “I’ve done you enough harm. You value his regard highly.”

 

Dean leans back on the desk, legs closing slightly as he wipes his hands on his thighs. There is strain in him, in his neck and spine. There is solidity in him, set before the purpling sky beyond the window. With more resignation than force, Dean points at him. “That was the last lie, do you understand?”

 

Castiel nods.

 

“Say it,” Dean commands.

 

“I understand,” Castiel says. “It was the last lie.”

 

Hands on his knees, Dean regards him coldly. “What were the other lies?”

 

“Sir Dean?”

 

Dean’s hands turn to fists. “Starting from the top. What was true and what was lies.”

 

Castiel’s mind fills with their every interaction, and he knows not where to begin.

 

Dean clearly does. “What’s your name?”

 

“Seraph Castiel,” he says, sitting up straighter.

 

“Do you work at a university? Any university.”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you a colleague of Seer Shurley?”

 

“No,” Castiel says. “We’ve never met. But we were working together on a project.”

 

“Are you an orphan?” Dean’s face is impossible to watch, his eyes impossible to meet, and still Castiel tries.

 

“I have never had parents. No one sired or birthed me. I don’t know if that qualifies.”

 

“Where do you live?”

 

“In a realm without light or air, beyond what we create ourselves through illusions,” Castiel replies. “Or, as I told you, a place I would never wish you to visit.”

 

His honesty does not soften Dean. It is unlikely anything ever will. “Were you going to write to me?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says.

 

“Until you got the tablet.”

 

His eyes strive to look away. He forces them back to Dean’s. “Yes.”

 

“And then you were going to vanish on me,” Dean says.

 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

 

“And then what?” Dean demands. “A great big hole opens in the air, a legion of angels comes flying out, and you, what? You stay vanished?”

 

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Castiel admits.

 

“No?”

 

“When trapped in a cage, it’s difficult to think of anything other than escape.”

 

“Do I look like I fucking care?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel answers, still honest.

 

Dean points at him, the gesture hard, his eyes gleaming. He opens his mouth. His shoulders fall, then rise. Visibly gathering up his control, Dean’s face twists in a manner much too similar to his father’s. He asks, “How did Anna die?”

 

Castiel’s teeth click together. His jaw aches with more than the fading bruise of his face, and he turns his face away. “That’s not relevant.”

 

“You said she was possessed, but angels can’t get possessed. Magical creatures can’t. So you lied,” Dean concludes, his voice flat and cruel. “That makes it relevant. How did she die?”

 

“Uriel was captured,” Castiel spits out. “We’d thought he was captured. When Anna asked me to take her shift on sentry duty, I thought… But she went. Alone. Against Michael’s orders.” He clamps his shaking hands on his knees but has no way to steady his wings. This is what Balthazar hurled at him during the selection process, and Castiel had endured, but not with this exhaustion. Not with this human man staring him down.

 

He continues all the same. “Uriel… ‘escaped.’ When Anna returned, she was broken and vicious, unintelligible. She tried to kill Uriel. When we held her down, she lashed out at any who came near, snarling like a beast. When Raphael couldn’t repair her mind, Michael killed her. We thought her blade would reject us, from her madness, but Hannah took it easily. Uriel never tried and I thought it was guilt. We consoled him for _years_ , and I thought him distant because only Anna had gone to rescue him. I thought… I thought my brother loved us. _That_ is how Anna died.”

 

Looking Dean full in the eyes, Castiel demands with a breaking voice, “Is that _relevant_?”

 

For the first time today, Dean looks away first. “Do you know what happened to him?”

 

“To make him hate us so much?” Castiel asks. “No. Contrary to what you might believe, I am not typically so awful a person as to warrant banishment to a sunless, airless void. I can only imagine Lucifer offered him something we could not.” Power, perhaps. Advancement beyond his station as a seraph, an impossibility in the traditional hierarchy of Heaven.

 

Dean lifts both hands from his knees, showing Castiel palms and loosely curled fingers. “I meant,” he says, strangely gentle, “do you know what happened to him while you were… out.”

 

“He’s dead,” Castiel says. “Executed for treason.”

 

Dean nods slowly. “You think he did it? Got you trapped.”

 

“I think he had both opportunity and ability,” Castiel replies. “He was a junior enchanter on the tablet project once it was underway. If he told Lucifer who to kill, who would be carrying the return tablet…”

 

His eyes grow distant as he speaks, seeing memories in a new, ugly light. “Uriel ‘invented’ the portal we’re using now. The one that only allows one person to pass through. If Lucifer had remained at strength and avoided banishment himself, Uriel could have used the portal to go to him, and never return. It would have used our own plan against us, without hope of escape. But without his wings, Lucifer would have been too weak to trust Uriel, or to truly command him. He needed to find a vessel first.

 

“Which is why Uriel brought us news of Seer Shurley’s prophecy. Not to find the tablet, but to help Lucifer reach Prince Samuel.”

 

“Then how come we got you instead?” Dean asks, and remarkably, it isn’t quite an insult.

 

“We used the excuse of a costume party to disguise our wings,” Castiel says. “Uriel thought his proficiency in illusions would secure him the position, but Raphael was concerned someone would reach through those illusions. So he tested us, and I control my wings the best.” This is a statement of fact, not pride. What serves him well in the air makes him awkward in conversation, not at all emotive. That he can’t seem to stop himself now is extremely frustrating.

 

“That’s it?” Dean asks. “That’s the one reason it was you.”

 

“We were tested very thoroughly,” Castiel says.

 

“Shield,” Dean calls him, as he often does.

 

“Yes?” Castiel answers.

 

Dean looks at him in clear expectation. Of what, Castiel has no idea, not even when Dean begins to indicate something with the motions of his head and the shifting of his features. “Shield,” Dean says again.

 

“I have no idea what you’re doing with your face,” Castiel admits. “I think I have basic literacy with facial expressions by now, but I don’t know this one.”

 

“You what?” Dean says.

 

“That one is confusion, I know that one,” Castiel says.

 

The confusion only increases, as if Dean is demonstrating the look. “You don’t know human facial expressions?”

 

“We emote primarily with our wings,” Castiel tells him. “Joshua – one of the older angels, a principality – was teaching me the basics after I realized that merely mirroring you was a mistake.”

 

“Mirroring me,” Dean repeats. His mouth grows hard as his eyes grow wide. “You’re telling me, no. You’re telling me you didn’t know you were flirting back?”

 

“Not until you told me,” Castiel confesses. “After the second night, I did know what I was doing.”

 

“You were constantly staring at my mouth.”

 

“It was the only unobstructed part of your face I could see,” Castiel explains, very reasonably considering his exhaustion and mood.

 

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean asks.

 

“Yes,” Castiel says. In truth, outright anger comes as a relief. He’s tired of waiting for it. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be for Dean to yell and shout and denounce him. Though the preparation was agony, the anticipation is worse.

 

Dean stares at him in a manner Castiel readily recognizes as displeased.

 

“You did want me to be honest,” Castiel reminds him.

 

“Are you telling me,” Dean says slowly, “that you didn’t want any of it?” There is something in his face, weighty and cracking, but it’s not anger. “I took you up to the observatory, and you asked me for time to think, just for Raphael to order you to do it anyway?”

 

“No,” Castiel says, and Dean blanches, his freckles popping to the fore. “Raphael didn’t command my tactics, merely my overall strategy. My actions were my own.”

 

Color returns to Dean’s face only slowly. The half-lit magelights are little help, and the window conceals the sky outside with a reflected glare. “And you went along with it because…?”

 

“It was too late to withdraw without offending you,” Castiel answers. “And… I didn’t want to.”

 

“Cas,” Dean says, sounding pained. He rubs a hand across his face. “You don’t kiss a guy just to keep him from getting offended.”

 

“You misunderstand,” Castiel says, unable to look at him any longer. “I didn’t want to withdraw.”

 

“That’s… a relief,” Dean says. “I mean, it’s a fucked up kind of relief, but that’s where we’re at.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, eyes on the floor. The chalk sigil looks up at him from the wood planks, the pattern fully intact despite Dean having walked across it.

 

“You’d better be,” Dean shoots back.

 

Castiel keeps his head lowered. It is the only act of contrition he has.

 

“The rest of it,” Dean says, “all that shit about your patron and your ‘research project,’ that was just code, wasn’t it? You fucking told me what you were after just to see if I’d give it to you.”

 

The longer Dean waits for an answer, the louder his silence demands one.

 

“Yes,” Castiel says. “And it was simpler than lying.”

 

“That was still lying, Cas.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says again.

 

“Everyone’s sorry, once they’re caught,” Dean tells him. “Amazing how that works out.”

 

“I was sorry before,” Castiel insists as calmly as he can, “but I wasn’t permitted to say it. I never intended this to become personal. I told you, I didn’t expect you. I did not and could not have planned for you.”

 

“You knew you were going to screw me over, and you were going to go ahead and do it anyway,” Dean tells him.

 

“Yes,” Castiel says, and through the ache, he feels no shame. “I promised my family air and sunlight. I told you I was doing it for them. Would you have done any less?”

 

“I’m not the one stuck in hostile territory here,” Dean retorts. “If you like telling me things to my face so much, why didn’t you just ask for the thing? Your freedom in exchange for exterminating demons, man, the same deal that’s on the table right now.”

 

“Raphael decided against it,” Castiel says. “Before our banishment, our war against the demons had brought humans to fear us. To slay a demon requires slaying its host, and this was not well-received.”

 

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but times change,” Dean shoots back. “We’ve got captive demons under lock and key that we’ve been guarding for fucking _centuries_ to keep them from torturing other people into demonhood, and you think we’d kick up a fuss over putting them both out of their misery?”

 

Holding Dean’s gaze grows ever more difficult. “That is a dispute you’ll have to have with Raphael.”

 

“I’m having it with you.”

 

“I don’t make a habit of disobeying my orders.”

 

“Maybe if you had, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Dean tells him.

 

“I saved your parents and your brother,” Castiel counters. “I’d thought I would kill myself, and I protected you both anyway. All of that, when I should have returned. I did disobey, Dean. For you. More than you know.”

 

“You mean you didn’t steal the tablet when I picked it up out of its box,” Dean says, cutting Castiel’s momentum.

 

“I,” Castiel says. “Yes.”

 

“Raphael thinks it stayed in the warded box the whole time,” Dean says. “I’m not contradicting, so my dad thinks the same, too. But I know better and so do you.” He stares at Castiel, waiting.

 

“What do you want me to say?” Castiel asks.

 

“Why didn’t you steal it?” Dean demands. “I couldn’t have stopped you. It’s fucking me up, man. You go through all of this and you blow your chance. You just, I don’t know, sat there and pretended to take notes. Why?”

 

Castiel looks down. He looks at his own palms, as if he might gather his thoughts within them. He tries. “Because,” he says, “we had committed ourselves to deceit, but I would not resign us to violence. I do not believe—I cannot believe—that is who we are.” He closes his hands and again looks away. “I could have forced my way out. Not bloodlessly, but I could have.” He shakes his head. “Captivity makes it difficult to think of anything beyond escape, but out here… There are more consequences here than there are in there. I stalled. I considered them.” He trains his eyes on the far wall and refuses to look away. “I realized I could get you to hand it over of your own volition.”

 

“So that’s it?” Dean asks. “All this, because you didn’t want to hurt a bunch of humans you didn’t even know?”

 

Castiel begins to nod. He stops.

 

“What else?” Dean asks, a firm demand not so much devoid of anger as simply hollow, empty of everything save command.

 

“Cowardice,” Castiel states. “Pure cowardice.”

 

Dean scoffs at him, a harsh variation on his otherwise pleasant laugh. “Right. Of course. Because I would have grabbed Michael’s sword out of that box and stabbed you with it, huh?”

 

“I didn’t have the resolve to betray you in person,” Castiel tells him, eyes still fixed on the wall.

 

After a long, aching silence, Dean replies, “Yeah, you did. You just didn’t have the guts to watch when I realized it.”

 

Castiel bows his head. He closes his eyes, wishes to be gone, and remains.

 

“Was the rest of it true?” Dean asks, voice rough. “Or any of it. Whichever. I don’t fucking care,” he says in the voice of a man who sorely does.

 

Castiel nods. “I lied no more than necessary. I know that’s not a comfort.”

 

“Damn right it’s not.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says once again, so many times.

 

“For what?” Dean demands. “You’re sorry you have to sit there and listen to me be angry?”

 

“What recompense are you after?” Castiel counters, lifting his gaze to match Dean’s. He falters but pushes through. “You don’t want my apologies, you don’t want my reasons, so what do you want?”

 

“You were this dorky little human guy,” Dean says, as if that follows. “Poor as fuck and smart as anything, and I fucking believed everything you said. You were gonna move here and we were gonna be happy, and I fucking _believed_ you.”

 

“I wanted to believe it, too,” Castiel says.

 

“Oh, boohoo,” Dean snaps. “You don’t get to be sad. You knew exactly what you were doing. You-”

 

The sharp jerk of Castiel’s wings cuts him off. Dean stares, eyes wide, but he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t seek to move away. Whether fury overrides his fear or he has no fear, there is no telling.

 

“What?” Dean asks.

 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Castiel tells him, bewildered by the notion that he could appear otherwise. “I am in a world that believes I don’t exist, navigating a culture I know only by stories, and in the one thing I was supposed to do, I have _failed_. This was not a victory, Dean, I am not gloating over having deceived you.”

 

His wings arch as much as they can in the limits of the room, the wrists raised high, feathers flaring. The wrappings on his left wing strain, but he pulls himself in before they can give way and agitate his regrowing feathers more. Everything, _everything_ , aches.

 

“If you had me brought back to hunt down Lucifer, I will do it,” Castiel promises. “His demons will cluster around him once they find him, and when Her Majesty finds the omens, I will go and kill him before he wakes. I will need Michael’s blade, but I will do it. If that’s what you want, I will do it.”

 

“First off,” Dean says, utterly unimpressed by Castiel’s display, “I didn’t _have_ you brought back. I fished you out of that fucking lake myself, and if you think five days in a combustion carriage is a picnic, then you got an ass of steel. My people ran themselves ragged finding you, you overgrown feather duster.

 

“And two,” he continues, “you ain’t going anywhere. I did not let Sam haul you back from death just so you can die and fuck me up all over again.”

 

Castiel’s wings fall lower as Dean speaks. He folds them uncomfortably, awkward from more than his mere physical position. “You… don’t want me dead?”

 

Dean stares at him, indecipherable.

 

“I don’t know what that face means,” Castiel reminds him.

 

“No, I don’t want you dead,” Dean says, but he has to mutter it, almost under his breath. “I’m pissed, not murdery.”

 

“I thought,” Castiel begins to say, but he doesn’t know how to think any longer, let alone what.

 

“Look, on the observatory tower, that was you or Sam,” Dean says. “I wasn’t going to let Lucifer kill you just for shits and giggles. Any coin I flip, the Sam side always comes up on top.”

 

“I chose my siblings over you,” Castiel says. “I expect you to do the same.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and he looks strange. Abruptly too tired to be angry. “Yeah, that’s…” Heaving a sigh, he drops his head low, elbows planted on his knees, hands pointing limply toward the floor. “If Sam were trapped in a box, I’d do a lot worse than you did to get him out.” Dean rubs at his face. He runs a hand through his hair. His hands twist in midair, as if seeking something else to touch. “Fuck, I need a drink.” He reaches over and unhooks the thermos latch.

 

“I thought that was soup,” Castiel says.

 

“Yeah, it’s what I got right now,” Dean says. He lifts the thermos to his lips, the lid hanging down over his hand, and blows at steam. Dean tentatively sips. Wincing, he shakes his head and caps the container anew. “Soup: not helpful.”

 

They ruminate in silence. The tap of the thermos against the desk is a loud one. As are Dean’s footsteps when he gets up to adjust the magelights to proper brightness. He walks back to the desk, each step avoiding a line of the warding on the floor. He looks at Castiel, and then at the window.

 

“Are you actually claustrophobic?” Dean asks.

 

“A lack of moving air is… detrimental,” Castiel replies.

 

Carefully, keeping an eye on Castiel all the while, Dean leans back and unfastens the window’s latch. He pushes it open scant inches, the hinges squealing, and night air drifts in. It wafts past Dean, bringing his scent with it, and Castiel leans into all of it, his eyes falling shut.

 

Silence stretches once more.

 

“Are you all this bad off?” Dean asks.

 

“It’s not so awful for the older ones,” Castiel says, not certain who he’s seeking to reassure. “For the youngest, it’s been half our lives. Longer, for the very youngest.”

 

“What are they, eight hundred?”

 

“Nine,” Castiel corrects.

 

“You count as young?” Dean asks. “Aren’t you like twelve hundred?”

 

Confused by the question, Castiel nevertheless nods. He is young.

 

They look at each other, neither speaking. The pause grows into a temporary truce that words would shatter. Castiel grows increasingly aware of his lack of shirt. In strange symmetry, Dean is bare of any obvious warding. Theoretically, Castiel could touch him. He could rub his thumbs across the tired bruises beneath Dean’s eyes, starker now in the light.

 

“What now?” Castiel asks before he can do something untoward.

 

“We need a formal alliance before anything else happens,” Dean says. “Parliament’s involved, which means it’ll take time. Less time with Sam arguing in favor, and even less if we can trust you in the public eye. Trusting each other, that’s gonna be the big thing.” Dean looks at him significantly. “And I don’t just mean politically.”

 

“I trust you,” Castiel says. “It’s a start.”

 

Dean’s expression shifts. It’s strange, how he almost looks amused. “Cas, you don’t trust me worth shit.”

 

Castiel frowns, remembers himself, and frowns again, this time with his face.

 

Dean watches him, sees the conscious correction, and shakes his head. “You stole a sword off me and ran in alone rather than ask for help.”

 

Castiel blinks.

 

“Didn’t even cross your mind, did it?” Dean asks.

 

“How would I have asked you?” He can think of no way.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean muses. “Maybe something like ‘Nick killed Michael, keep him away from Sam’?” Dean smiles in a way that’s no smile at all. “C’mon, man, we both know I would have believed anything you told me.”

 

“There wasn’t time to argue. Dean, there wasn’t time to _think_.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dean says with strangely little force. “I’ve seen how fast you think.”

 

“You would have tried to protect me,” Castiel says, “and Lucifer would have killed you. I took the blade because I needed it, but I hoped you would stop somewhere long enough to get a new weapon.”

 

“I’m not defenseless,” Dean says, the force behind his words growing.

 

“Neither was your father,” Castiel counters. “Or Michael. Or Gabriel, or Anna, or any of the countless others.”

 

“So you have to fight him one-on-one?” Dean shoots back.

 

“It was the only option,” Castiel says. “Had the combat been solely aerial, I would have had him.”

 

“Because you control your wings just that well, huh?” Dean demands.

 

“Because his were brand new and wrecking his balance,” Castiel answers. “On the ground, he destroyed me, just as he would have destroyed you.”

 

“You still could have asked. You could have said _something_ , man.”

 

Castiel doesn’t display or posture. He keeps his body as controlled as his words, which is to say, not very. “So you could have rushed in without knowing - without _believing_ _in_ \- what you were attacking?” Castiel demands right back. “Forgive me for valuing your life over your pride.”

 

“Forgive you?” Dean echoes, standing from the desk. “ _Forgive_ you?”

 

Castiel backs down, lifting his hands. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

 

Taking a breath, Dean rubs at his face again. His shoulders rise and fall, twin slopes of tension. He leans, but he doesn’t sit. “Cas, you may not have noticed, but I rushed in anyway,” Dean states. “Except I thought I was chasing my panicking… you, and every guard who joined in thought they were after the guy who’d stolen the prince’s sword. A lot of people got hurt. And, yeah, if you hadn’t drawn his attention so fast, a lot of people probably would have died, but we were all rushing in there blind because you couldn’t take one second to warn us.”

 

“I wasn’t thinking,” Castiel says, head bowed. “I’d had a bad feeling all week, but to have it confirmed… I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”

 

“Yeah, well, we gotta work on that,” Dean says with a sigh.

 

Castiel narrows his eyes and cocks his head. “‘We’?”

 

“Yeah, dumbass. We.” He sits back up on the desk, bumping the books, which in turn nudge the bag. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we’re kinda stuck together now. Covering for other people’s lies will do that.”

 

Castiel nods, even as the king’s demand hovers over them, circling in position and ready to strike. “Is that the only way we’re stuck together?”

 

“Depends on how far I can trust you,” Dean says. “I mean, Sam’s a big fan now. He liked you when you were just an angel expert, and the whole snatching him out of the sky thing, y’know, major points for that.”

 

“I am an angel expert,” Castiel replies. “I’ve now met and spoken to every living member of my species.”

 

Dean looks at him with raised eyebrows. “Yeah, all right, I guess that counts.” His eyes slide to the side, the way an angel’s would when watching Castiel’s mood. “Sam said you came down on your back. On the observatory tower.”

 

Castiel permits himself to frown. “He was unconscious. At least, I’d thought he was.”

 

“Yeah, the guy has visions of near-death experiences while having them now,” Dean says.

 

Castiel’s frown grows more pronounced, enough that the bandages pull at his feathers. “Using magic at that point could have killed him.”

 

“Right?” Dean demands, an abrupt accusation leveled at an absent party. For the briefest of instants, Dean and Castiel are allied. Dean looks at him as he once did, vibrant and enthused and very nearly his, and then Dean remembers. Having the window shut would have been easier to endure.

 

“You were saying,” Castiel prompts. “About the tower.”

 

“Sam said you, uh. Shielded him,” Dean says. “From the glass, coming down. Spread your wings, crashed through the whole thing to slow down before you hit the floor.”

 

“He broke his leg on the way down,” Castiel says, presuming that this is what Dean is circling his way toward. “I had him-” he gestures against his chest “-but his leg was to the side, and it hit one of the metal supports.”

 

“Yeah, he said that too,” Dean tells him. “And that you stood over him and… all that. Got yourself stabbed when I came up.”

 

“He was going for you, of course I ‘got myself stabbed’,” Castiel says, too tired to predict where Dean is going with this.

 

“You shielded us,” Dean says, using the word as if he knows its particular meaning where Castiel is concerned.

 

Castiel nods, waiting for a question.

 

The one Dean asks is entirely unexpected.

 

Dean points at his bound wing and asks, “How is it? Still need the splints?”

 

“No,” Castiel hazards, gently flexing to be sure. “But I can’t reach.” His right wing, he’s taken care of. Each feather regrown had pushed out its broken or cut predecessor, and he’s had ample time to finger comb them free.

 

Dean nods and says, “Hold still.”

 

He rises. He approaches. He stands at the end of the bed, beside Castiel where his wing hangs over the edge, bound and folded.

 

“You tell me if this hurts,” Dean commands, and Castiel cannot do other than obey.

 

At Castiel’s answering nod, Dean’s hands touch him. Through the bandages only, but they touch him. They unbind him slowly, carefully. First go the wrappings holding his wing folded. The padded splints shift beneath, but there is no pain, only the irritation of itching growth and broken feathers.

 

“Can you stretch it out?” Dean asks.

 

“In here?” Castiel asks, the question ridiculous.

 

“As far as you can,” Dean amends.

 

Castiel stretches. Dean moves with him, two guiding hands on his wing, and Castiel flinches away, folding back in.

 

“Sorry,” Dean says.

 

“The warding,” Castiel explains, and Dean looks down. He’s standing on one of the chalk sigils.

 

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right.”

 

Dean considers the floor a few moments longer before looking up at Castiel. Castiel sits lower in his kneel, the sensation of being taller than Dean unpleasant and ill-fitting.

 

“Scoot,” Dean orders, shooing Castiel with both hands. When Castiel cocks his head, Dean adds, “Get to the head of the bed, Cas.”

 

Castiel obeys, moving sideways on his knees. Before he can stretch his wing again, Dean climbs onto the end of the bed, kneeling to face Castiel.

 

“Let’s try that again,” Dean says.

 

Castiel unfolds. He keeps the underside facing Dean, a display of trust whether Dean recognizes it or not.

 

Dean removes the splints on his forewing first. He unwinds bandages. Watching Castiel’s face, he brushes out loose feathers with his fingers, and Castiel strives not to close his eyes.

 

“You don’t need to do that,” Castiel tells him, unable to directly refuse this intimacy.

 

“They need to come out,” Dean says. He presses his palm against Castiel’s primary coverts, beneath his wrist. The skin there is still tender. “This where he stabbed you?”

 

Castiel nods.

 

“That’s looking a lot better,” Dean says. Using his thumbs, he parts the feathers there. “A puncture wound, and not even a scar.” He keeps brushing through, looking. Castiel does the selfish thing and refrains from mentioning that angels don’t scar. If he moved his alula, it would be a simple thing to hold Dean’s hand, but there, he has at least some restraint.

 

Having finished with the underside, Dean inspects the back solely by touch. He does not linger, he does not caress, but the relief from itching is not the only bliss Dean leaves in the wake of his hands.

 

“Next splint,” Dean says, perhaps warning him. He shifts further up the bed, closer to Castiel. In freeing Castiel’s upper wing, the backs of his hands brush against Castiel’s bare upper arm, and Dean freezes.

 

“I, uh,” Dean says. “I got a shirt in the bag. I was gonna… but I got sidetracked.”

 

“I’m not cold,” Castiel tells him quietly.

 

Rather than look at his face, Dean looks at his chest. Dean’s eyes trace the shape of the healed sigil. It’s faint now, barely visible and only irritating when Castiel focuses on it. In a few hours more, it should be gone entirely. Dean stares at it, and he looks lost.

 

Castiel does not reach with his hands. He does not wrap his wing around Dean. He waits and he wants, holding down an ache worse than all the rest.

 

Dean removes the remaining splints, one on the front, one from the back. Again, he combs out the fallen feathers, his hands surer than before and just as warm. His wrist brushes Castiel’s arm, smooth skin followed by the unwelcome cuff of his jacket. Even after his work is done, Dean keeps his fingers buried in Castiel’s coverts, feeling the flesh beneath in a motion half-inspection, half-massage. Dean finds the bone and squeezes along it, his eyes back on Castiel’s face, watching for pain, seemingly oblivious to the pleasure.

 

“Think you’ll fly again, then?” Dean asks.

 

“Yes,” Castiel rasps. He clears his throat. “Thank you.”

 

“Can I see the other one?” Dean asks.

 

“It’s fine,” Castiel promises him. “You’ve done enough.”

 

Watching the motion of his own hand, Dean continues to stroke the border between gray coverts and black flight feathers. His expression turns distant. “Black, with an ashy underside,” he muses, as if quoting something.

 

“Cinder,” Castiel corrects, just as quietly. When Dean looks at his face, he explains, “Ash is the color of death. Cinders still have life in them. Even if the shades are the same, the distinction is important. My wings will only be ashen when I am dead.”

 

Dean looks at him, into his eyes, and Dean shakes his head in a way that is strangely unrelated to denial or rejection. “How are you still you?”

 

Castiel narrows his eyes and tilts his head, but Dean mirrors the motion, almost preempts the reality with his impression. Faintly, Dean laughs, and Castiel cannot guess at the emotion inside that sound.

 

“No, seriously,” Dean says. “How are you still you?”

 

“I don’t understand the question,” Castiel says.

 

“You spent a week pretending to be someone else,” Dean tells him, incorrectly. “You telling me that’s actually who you are?”

 

“I pretended to be human,” Castiel allows.

 

Perhaps unable to face that sentiment, Dean looks away from Castiel’s face and back to his wing. “Can’t believe I thought these were fake,” he says, still touching the coverts. Castiel should fold it up, should move away, but Dean keeps touching him and Castiel hurts enough already. “The way you held them, they didn’t look real.”

 

“It was intentionally awkward,” Castiel admits, voice as soft as Dean’s touch.

 

They look at each other. They keep looking.

 

Dean pulls away.

 

“Shirt,” Dean says, shuffling off the bed and onto his feet. “Let me, yeah.” He turns to the desk, turns his back entirely, the whole exposed expanse of it, and pulls open the bag. The shirt is a muted tan, and Castiel’s mind stalls before recognizing a familiar object in a strange place.

 

“They sent a shirt,” Castiel says, surprised into stating the obvious. It’s the one Inias typically wears, the one he had loaned Castiel while Balthazar altered his outfits this past week. Past month, it’s been almost a month now.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, passing it over.

 

Castiel takes it.

 

Their hands do not touch.

 

Castiel puts it on, flipping the flap over his back between his wings. He pulls his head through the hole and arms through the sleeves, and he tries not to struggle with the buttons down each of his sides while Dean watches.

 

“Need a hand?” Dean asks.

 

He very nearly accepts, but to have Dean that near would be too much. “I already have two.”

 

“Smartass,” Dean calls him, and it might still be an endearment.

 

Castiel secures the shirt.

 

Dean stands between desk and bed, returning to neither. He is untouchable, a sigil beneath his feet. Behind him, a stronger breeze pushes night air inside. It smells like rain, but none yet falls.

 

“The stuff that was just us,” Dean says. “Did you mean that?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says.

 

“All of it?” Dean asks.

 

“Yes,” Castiel says.

 

“Swear it,” Dean says. “On whatever you love most.”

 

“I swear it on Hannah and Balthazar,” Castiel says. His tongue wants to continue. He stops before the third name.

 

Dean looks at him long and hard before nodding. “So we’re back to the original plan.”

 

“Dean?”

 

“You finish up your ‘project,’” Dean tells him. “Your archangel patron releases you into our service. You’ll live in the capital as a Man of Letters. Angel of Letters. Whatever. Hannah and Balthazar too, if they’ll take orders from my dad.”

 

As Castiel stares, Dean continues, “Charlie’s been pushing to get a couple angels for Moondoor. Pretty much every foreign head of state has, and Raphael’s already laid down the condition that no angel is permitted in an international dispute. If we get three, everyone smaller will want three to be ‘fair’, and everyone bigger will want more to be ‘proportionate,’ but there you go. Politics. Everyone gets an angel squad to wipe out demons within their borders.

 

“Giving over the tablet is Parliament’s thing, technically. Confirming alliances. But we got international pressure to do something before a demon-making archangel with a proclivity for kidnapping heads of state wakes up, so we’ll see how fast things go once everybody starts making concessions to us. There’s a lot of places that’ll be pissed we’re not consulting them, but the timetable is too short and they’re too far away, so they’ll just have to suck it up.”

 

Castiel keeps staring.

 

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, Sam didn’t so much take a nap as give me a crash course in what I missed, out hunting down your feathery ass.”

 

Responding to the one thing he is certain about, Castiel replies, “My ass is not feathered.”

 

“Kinda missing the point there, Cas,” Dean says.

 

The hope is too thin to give voice to. The weight of breath might be enough to break it.

 

“What is the point?” Castiel asks instead.

 

“That as long as my dad’s cover story holds, this is going to work out for you,” Dean tells him. “All you gotta do is not go poking holes in it.”

 

The dread returns.

 

“And the extent of that cover is?” Castiel asks.

 

“Seer Shurley found your portal through a vision,” Dean says, listing on his fingers. “He asked you to send help for something demon related at the castle. You showed up, and we agreed to scratch your backs if you’d scratch ours. We kept it a secret because Chuck said there was a spy somewhere. Because shit nearly hit the fan with Lucifer, we’re putting additional terms into our side of the arrangement before we let you all out.” He lowers both hands, spreading them palms up. “That’s the story all of you have to stick to. Just that. No one looks stupid, no one looks duplicitous. Chuck looks annoyingly vague, but he’s a seer, that’s what seers do.”

 

“His Majesty mentioned one of those additional terms,” Castiel states, braving the subject Dean has avoided this entire time.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “Bobby mentioned.” He looks at Castiel with an expression that might be intended to be blank. “He said you refused.”

 

“I did,” Castiel agrees. He kneels higher, the better to tuck his wings in properly, bracing.

 

Dean doesn’t fight. Dean doesn’t argue. Dean looks at him as a man already the victor and says, “Too late, dumbass, you already agreed.”

 

“No,” Castiel begins to say, but Dean shakes his head, pointing at him.

 

“Down in the vault, you said you’d be mine if I still wanted you,” Dean says. “Gave me a lot of crap about changing circumstances and not being a good match, but guess what? I need you. And I figure that counts.”

 

“We can find a way around the arrangement,” Castiel promises him. “You don’t need to do this. It’s the rest of your life, Dean.”

 

“What, you don’t think you can stick out forty years?” Dean challenges.

 

“Fifty,” Castiel corrects unthinkingly. If given the opportunity, he’s sure he could push that number up to seventy, push Dean up onto a full century of life.

 

“C’mon, that’s still nothing to you.”

 

“That’s not my point.” He arches in an appropriate display, making his agitation clear. “You deserve a spouse you can trust.”

 

“You telling me I can’t trust you?” Dean asks.

 

“You said you don’t,” Castiel tells him.

 

“Good thing I got fifty years to learn how,” Dean says with a blasé shrug.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says, because this is absurd. “You would be tied to me for the rest of your life.”

 

“Thanks for the heads up, but I know what marriage is, Cas,” Dean says.

 

“You’d be miserable,” Castiel tells him.

 

“And you actually care,” Dean says. “Look at that, that’s husband material right there.”

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

The mocking look—for that’s what it must be—in Dean’s face relents. “You spent that last night ready to jump me the entire time,” he says. “I don’t know if that was one last goodbye or one last hurrah before fucking off forever, but I do know you want me. You do want me, don’t you, Cas?”

 

Castiel looks down. Dean comes forward, filling his vision, and Castiel looks away to the wall.

 

“Do you want out for you?” Dean asks, more serious, no longer taunting. “’Cause we could do something then. Call it a mourning period, get us a fifty year engagement. Not sure how well that would fly, but then, I’m not the expert there, huh?”

 

Castiel keeps his eyes on the wall.

 

“That was a joke, Cas. Flying.”

 

“I know,” he says.

 

“Look at me,” Dean tells him, and Castiel obeys. Dean is serious and close and beautiful. “Do you need me to tell you what my face means now?”

 

“No,” Castiel says.

 

“Do you want out for you?” Dean asks again.

 

Slowly, as barely as he can, Castiel shakes his head. He pushes down the words. He pushes down the shame.

 

“If you can deal, I can deal,” Dean says. “Don’t worry about me. You weren’t going to pick me over your siblings, right? So you gotta suck it up and marry me. I’ll be gone half the time anyway. I’ll be out on patrol hunting so much, you’d think you were single.”

 

“I’d go with you,” Castiel tells him, fighting not to press flat. “If I am to be in your keeping, then you are to be in my protection.”

 

“You proposing to me now, Cas?” Dean asks, only half a joke in his voice.

 

Steeling himself, Castiel nods.

 

Dean’s eyebrows rise up. His lips part. “All right,” he says. “Yeah. You can hunt with me. You can, yeah.”

 

“I specialize in demon trapping and slaying,” Castiel explains.

 

“We’re counting on that,” Dean says, and he touches Castiel’s shoulder. His palm slides against tense muscle until his fingers bury themselves in scapular feathers. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” Dean warns. “Engagement shit and all.”

 

Castiel rises up. He stands on his knees, and Dean guides him back down. His mouth is soft and strange, like a long-abandoned nest, and Castiel presses tighter into that place where he once knew comfort.

 

For the first time, he holds Dean properly, his arms around Dean’s waist, his wings over their shoulders and down Dean’s back. Though there’s no answering reach of wings around his sides, he’s not lacking. Dean’s mouth freezes against his for only a second before Dean accepts the embrace. Dean feels around, not knowing where to put his own arms, but he responds quickly when Castiel guides them up around his own neck.

 

Their mouths part. Their foreheads press. Dean holds Castiel’s head with one hand and fists Castiel’s scapular feathers with the other. Castiel splays his flight feathers, the better to hold Dean’s body all the way down.

 

“I’m still pissed at you,” Dean says against his mouth.

 

“I know,” Castiel says.

 

“Good,” Dean says and kisses him again, more biting than before. His hands press harder, his mouth harsher, but he tastes nearly the same when he pushes past Castiel’s lips and gives himself to him. Castiel sucks and pulls, accepting Dean as a welcome guest. When Dean hums his approval, Castiel continues as if he might never stop.

 

They don’t kiss long enough. They explore each other, certainly. Holding Dean fully is a heady thing, an impossible hope fulfilled. Dean touches him back, touches his wings everywhere he can reach. Their kisses turn shallow, exchanges of warm breath and brushing contact, the better to let them focus on their hands. But they still don’t kiss long enough.

 

Too soon, always too soon, Dean pulls back. “So, uh.” He clears his throat. “We didn’t have a witness, so technically, still not engaged. Whoops.”

 

“According to the oldest version of the tradition, we’re now married,” Castiel reminds him.

 

“We gotta get you caught up on current events, dude,” Dean says, eyes still on Castiel’s mouth. “No, we need a witness. And, uh. I might actually need to kiss Jo again, so my dad can witness, too.”

 

Although it means largely releasing Dean, Castiel displays what he thinks of that. Dean’s eyebrows rise as Castiel’s feathers shift under his hands.

 

“Still gotta do it,” Dean tells him. “And if I have to talk you into marrying me, you don’t get to be jealous.”

 

“I’m fine with Dame Joanna,” Castiel says, “but I dislike your father.”

 

“He has that effect on people sometimes,” Dean says. “If it helps, he fucking hates you.”

 

“I’m uncertain how that would help,” Castiel says.

 

“Even if it doesn’t help, he still hates you,” Dean says. “Anyone who makes a fool out of him, that’s his general policy.”

 

“That wasn’t what he was upset about,” Castiel tells him.

 

“Well, he never _says_ that’s why he’s pissed,” Dean says. “He’d have to admit somebody pulled one over him to do that.”

 

“He was irate I’d made you look weak,” Castiel says.

 

Dean blinks down at him, his hands tightening on Castiel. He covers the pause well, almost immediately saying, “See, told you he’d say it was something else.” He clears his throat and adds, “It’s, uh, it’s Jo you should worry about, though. The second you try to back out, she’s stabbing you, and she’s been training with Michael’s blade too.”

 

“All right,” Castiel allows.

 

Dean stares back at him. “All right?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says, and nods. “It’s not too late for you to change your mind, but-”

 

“But shut the fuck up,” Dean says lightly.

 

Castiel kneels back down, folding his wings high behind himself. Dean’s hands trail off his wings and down his arms.

 

They look at each other.

 

They keep looking at each other.

 

“I have questions,” Castiel says. “May I?”

 

“Ask ’em,” Dean allows.

 

“What is this called?” Castiel asks, and he hits his palms together.

 

Dean stares at him before a laugh bursts out through him. It’s a small laugh, as they go, but it’s more than Castiel thought he’d ever hear out of Dean again. “Are you serious?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says, nodding. “What everyone would do after the musicians played. What’s it called?”

 

“You mean _clapping_?” Dean asks, laughter still in his voice.

 

“Clapping,” Castiel repeats. “Is it to signify gratitude or appreciation?”

 

“Uh, both?” The corners of Dean’s mouth turn up, his upper lip rising. His cheeks shift and his eyes crinkle. “You don’t know what clapping is?”

 

“We don’t do it, and I couldn’t ask before,” Castiel explains. “Why do you sometimes close one eye?”

 

Shaking his head, Dean shows more and more of his teeth, but it is anything but a gesture of aggression. “Why do I wink?”

 

“If that’s the word,” Castiel agrees, his feathers fluffing up as if Dean’s smile is the sun.

 

Dean makes the motion, the wink. He does it easily, still grinning.

 

“What does it mean?” Castiel asks.

 

“Lots of things,” Dean says. “Like we got a secret.”

 

Castiel nods, thinking of Sir Robert taking his leave while knowing Castiel’s lie. “I see.”

 

Dean smooths his smile down from his mouth, but it remains in his eyes. “All right, what else you wanna know?”

 

Shaking his head, Castiel says, “Only serious matters. They can wait.”

 

“But winking couldn’t?” Dean asks. “Seriously?”

 

“I thought it would amuse you,” Castiel says, lowering his eyes as he speaks. When he looks up again, Dean is leaning in close.

 

“Still mad at you,” Dean says, looking more calm than angry.

 

“I know,” Castiel says, lifting his chin higher.

 

They kiss, lips pressing, then brushing, then pressing again. Castiel visits Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s tongue proves an admirable host. They kiss. They keep kissing. Dean’s hands are warm on his face and in his hair. Dean breathes into him and Castiel inhales. They trade breaths. Tension trickles out of him, turning heat into warmth, force into comfort. His eyes have closed and he cannot open them. Dean nudges him farther back on the bed before climbing on as well, also kneeling.

 

Their bodies press together in a way they haven’t before. Castiel inhales sharply, jerking back to higher awareness, and Dean licks into his mouth. Castiel holds him low and Dean makes an even lower noise.

 

“Keep that up, and we’re gonna have to get a chaperon,” Dean warns.

 

“Oh,” Castiel breathes against his mouth, and releases him with slow hands.

 

Dean huffs closer still, moving to kiss Castiel’s neck. “Did I say stop?”

 

“No,” Castiel says, tilting his head, covering the back of Dean’s with his hand. He holds Dean there, just like this with teeth and tongue and lips, and his body wants to sway. He holds Dean less and less, and Dean holds him more and more.

 

“Hey,” Dean says gently, which is when Castiel realizes the kissing has stopped. He’s simply slumping against Dean now, his chin on the man’s shoulder. “You all right?”

 

“If I relax any further, I might fall asleep,” Castiel murmurs.

 

“Kind of insulting,” Dean says. He keeps petting the backs of Castiel’s wings anyway, playing with the divisions between one set of feathers and the next. With his other hand, Dean scratches the back of Castiel’s head, and Castiel turns his face against Dean’s neck. “Then again, you were basically a corpse for like two weeks.”

 

Breathing him in, ignoring everything else, Castiel nuzzles closer.

 

“C’mon, time to lie down,” Dean decides for him.

 

“I can stay awake,” Castiel promises, making only a token effort to push off him. “I haven’t slept since…” He shakes his head, the date escaping him. “There was an archdemon involved. Smoke. Flaying.”

 

“Yeah, well, there was an archangel this time. Almost some flaying, too. Nope, move it, c’mon. Head on the pillow side, this time, down you go.”

 

Unsure what to do with the cushion but certain he’s not meant to bury his face in it while unconscious, Castiel turns the pillow lengthwise and rests his chest on it. It makes a satisfactory gap between his mouth and the bed itself, and his wings have a better angle to droop off his back. He turns his head and looks up at Dean, who stares down with the same face he’d made when Cas asked about the clapping.

 

“Lift up,” Dean says, nudging Castiel’s left wing. Castiel lifts. Dean sits down on the bed, back to the headboard, his legs stretched out before him. “There,” Dean says, and he settles Castiel’s wing across his legs. His boots feel strange under Castiel’s flight feathers.

 

Arms folded beneath his cheek, Castiel blinks up at him slowly.

 

“Are you sure?” Castiel makes himself ask.

 

“We’re the best option we got,” Dean says, fingers brushing down from Castiel’s scapulars to his marginal coverts. “We can swing it. You guys need your freedom, we need people who can kill demons. We just gotta keep faking things a bit longer, all right? Whatever people expect, I’m only asking you to marry me, Cas, not to love me.” And his hand stops moving.

 

Castiel looks up at him, at the side of his arm and his unkissed neck, at green eyes not looking back. “You could,” he says quietly.

 

Dean looks down at him. “I could what?”

 

“Ask,” Castiel says, and he doesn’t bother disguising the tension in his body, in his wing under Dean’s hand and across Dean’s legs.

 

Dean looks at him long and hard and says, “Go to sleep.”

 

Reaching up, Dean slaps the magelight over the bed, next to a chalked ward. Sympathetically joined, all the magelights dim the same amount. Dean lowers his hand and Castiel shifts up, lifting himself with the wrists of both wings, his left forewing spread entirely across Dean’s lap.

 

Dean frowns down and Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand with his left. He guides Dean’s hand to his right forearm, still pressed against the bed. He pushes Dean’s palm under the cuff of his flared sleeve, against the inside of his wrist.

 

When Dean’s frown only deepens, Castiel manifests his blade. Dean’s eyes widen as Castiel’s fight to fall shut. Castiel has barely enough power, but he does have it. He manifests his blade hilt-first, a seam of his own light outlining the blade.

 

“Draw it,” Castiel rasps.

 

Dean’s hand under Castiel’s, fingers wrapped around a hilt Castiel can still feel from the inside out, Dean pulls. The blade leaves Castiel’s skin and his consciousness tries to go with it, but Castiel holds on.

 

“Whoa, hey.” Dean hurriedly turns the blade around and presses the hilt back against Castiel’s arm. His voice sounds far away. “You put that back in.”

 

“No,” Castiel says, weakly tightening his fingers around Dean’s hand. He pulls his right arm away, tucking it against his body, hidden under his wing. He lowers his head back down and closes his eyes. “It’s yours now.” And he wraps his left arm around Dean’s waist. He tucks his face against Dean’s hip, holding on to sensations so different from grief and guilt.

 

“Cas,” Dean says, like he doesn’t know how to say anything else.

 

“I’m going to sleep now,” Castiel says, and he does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see what else I'm up to or get (potentially) faster responses to questions and comments, follow me on [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, everybody, and I'll see you next week for the final chapter.


	14. Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last long one, so grab your snacks and remember your tea.

In the morning, there is a knock on the door, and Dean doesn’t want to answer.

 

Then there is another knock, and he rolls over, both toward the door and toward the source of the weirdest blanket of his life. After three full days of being an unresponsive unconscious lump against Dean’s side, Cas has turned into an extremely responsive unconscious lump, and his wing twitches to keep Dean close.

 

Newly uncovered, Dean’s feet and shins go cold, the hazard of sleeping with an open window during a rainy night. The rain had given up at some point after Dean turned off the magelights and pulled off his boots, but definitely before he woke up halfway through the night and couldn’t figure out if he was dreaming. In the pre-dawn light through the windows, Dean looks at the source of his confusion.

 

Head pillowed on his arms, Cas lies still, his eyes moving under their lids. That, more than the heat of him, keeps Dean’s staring calm, looking rather than inspecting. Shifting his arm beneath the warmth of Cas’ wing, Dean touches Cas’ shirt at the back, fingers slipping through the gap between buttons and the base of his wing. His arm gives a twinge from having slept on it wrong, but he keeps it where it is. He feels Cas breathe a bit more, the rise and fall of that rhythm, and tells himself he’s just checking for a minute.

 

A third knock, and a familiar voice calls through the door, “Seraph Castiel, are you awake?”

 

“Jo, go away!” Dean stage-whispers back.

 

Being Jo, she immediately opens the door. “ _There_ you are.”

 

Cas twitches awake in an instant, and before Dean can blink, he has a tense angel on top of him. Not just the wing, the entire angel. Supporting his upper body with his wings pressed against the bed, Cas secures Dean with an iron grip, his head turned toward the door, eyes fixed on Jo. Lying as still as possible, Dean has the sudden mental image of a bear mistaking him for one of her cubs.

 

Jo raises her hand in what, from Dean, would be a calming gesture. From Jo, it’s just as easily a threat of flames. “Good morning,” she says, sarcasm in both her voice and grin.

 

Cas’ eyes narrow. Lips pursed in an unasked question, he looks between Jo and Dean. His cheek is flushed pink from pressing against his arms as he slept.

 

“I’m missing training,” Dean explains just as Cas says, “I was hallucinating.”

 

“What?” Dean says.

 

“I was seeing things while asleep,” Cas says, upper body still braced over Dean. It’s gorgeous muscle control and probably not the most surreal thing Dean’s going to witness today.

 

“You were dreaming,” Dean says, and a thought hits him. “You don’t have visions, too, do you?”

 

Cas shakes his head. One hand still pressing Dean down into the bed, he moves the other off Dean’s chest, instead cupping the side of his face, thumb along his jaw. Without warning, despite being in an entirely different place on his body, the tense ache in Dean’s shoulder and arm unravels. Traces of pain he hadn’t known he had abruptly make themselves conspicuous by their absence. The chill in his sock-clad toes fades. He can breathe through both nostrils. In the world’s strangest facsimile of a kiss, the taste inside Dean’s mouth changes from sleep nasty to neutral default.

 

“You’re all right,” Cas tells him like he thinks Dean’s the one who needs convincing.

 

Boxed in by wings and held in place by large hands, Dean stares up at him.

 

From the doorway, Jo clears her throat.

 

“Jo, go away,” Dean orders.

 

“Dunno, looks like you need a chaperon,” Jo says.

 

“Nothing untoward is transpiring,” Cas says, not looking away. His eyes are so fucking blue.

 

Jo turns the magelights on bright. Dean winces his eyes shut.

 

“Nothing’s transpiring yet,” Jo says, reading Dean’s mind. “And it shouldn’t, because you’re still not officially engaged.”

 

Expression neutral save for his eyes, Cas still manages to look very unimpressed. “What is the current stance on purity laws?”

 

“On what?” Jo asks.

 

“Virginity before marriage,” Dean says, because why the hell not give a history lesson under an angel in a borrowed bed. Seriously, Cas seems to have forgotten he’s even holding himself up with his wings. “It was a big thing before healers figured out how to confirm lineage.”

 

“If it’s no longer in vogue, there’s no issue,” Cas informs Jo, like this bit of political debate isn’t him justifying some bedtime playtime.

 

“No, there is,” Dean says, groaning a little. He pushes at Cas, an effort that should be futile, but Cas moves over as easily as shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Consummation laws. Doesn’t matter how incomplete the draft is, the marriage contract gets set in stone the second we bump uglies.”

 

Cas rises back, smoothly pushing himself up until he’s kneeling. A chill rushes in across Dean as his makeshift blanket folds itself against Cas’ back. With Dean still lying in front of him, Cas looks down his body, a scan no less appreciative for its speed or Cas’ seeming lack of expression. His eyes make his thoughts clear.

 

“Which part of you is meant to be ugly?” Cas asks, sounding sincerely confused.

 

It would be really romantic if the answer weren’t Dean’s dick.

 

“It’s a euphemism,” Dean says with great dignity, sitting up.

 

“For his dick,” Jo adds.

 

When Dean glares at her, she stares him right back down with Harvelle confidence. And then she snickers, because, fuck Dean’s life, Cas is staring at Dean’s crotch with unabashed curiosity.

 

“My dick is fine,” Dean says. To his future husband, first thing in the morning, in front of his former squire. Because, again, fuck Dean’s life. “Jo, seriously, go away.”

 

“It’ll look better if we leave together,” she reminds him. “Unless you want people thinking you rushed the treaty through overnight.”

 

“All right, fine,” Dean says. “Go away for five minutes, I’ll be right out.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Jo says. She pops out the world’s most perfunctory bow before closing the door. Her footsteps travel much too short a distance, and the outer door doesn’t open.

 

It’s not quite privacy, but when Cas looks at him, it feels like it.

 

“You, uh,” Dean says. He licks his lips with a dry tongue. “You good?”

 

There, as predicted, is the tilting of the head. “Regarding what?”

 

“Go down the list, man,” Dean tells him, because, yeah, fair enough.

 

“My body is much repaired,” Cas says, which is obvious enough from his little stunt upon waking. “My grace still needs time to replenish.”

 

“If you need to, uh, put your blade back in,” Dean says, but Cas shakes his head.

 

“Your father will want proof of my compliance,” Cas says, “and I imagine both he and Sir Robert will rest easier seeing I’m as unarmed as I can be.”

 

“Hell of a qualifier, there,” Dean notes.

 

“Continue to consider me a mage,” Cas says, all the while shifting his wings so he can sit down in his kneel. The longest feathers of each wing cross behind him, almost like folding his arms. The upper parts of his wings, those joints before the really long feathers start, move out to the sides a little, peeking around his shoulders instead of over them.

 

Dean definitely stares too long, because those wings go still. Absolutely still, abruptly costume pieces once more. Dean looks back up to Cas’ face.

 

“My species bothers you,” Cas assumes, expression neutral. Except, no. That’s his expression, natural. It’s his wings that are forced into neutrality. Dean was almost right: Cas doesn’t have a poker face, but poker _wings_.

 

For another man, it might be too early in the morning for bravado, but Dean has the benefit of practice. He shrugs, nice and pronounced, and says, “Got fifty years to get used to it.”

 

The way Cas looks at him, face blank and wings motionless, that was not the right answer.

 

“We should talk later,” Dean says, because who knows what someone like Cas considers as _later_. “But I gotta...” He swings his legs out of bed and stands, getting chalk on his socks. “Shit.” He looks down at the broken sigil and, well, screw it. “Right, so you’re not confined to bed rest anymore, but, y’know. Stay in the room.” Not looking at Cas, he tugs on his boots.

 

Slowly, with the same kind of tentativeness Cas uses to smile, Cas walks on his knees to the edge of the bed. He lowers one foot to the floor. He stands and sways, and his wings snap out. Dean practically jumps on top of the desk, getting out of the way, but all Cas does is stand there, lightheaded and pale and wobbling with those two immense limbs struggling to compensate.

 

“Maybe stay on the bed,” Dean says.

 

“That seems wise,” Cas agrees, voice thin. Feet still on the floor, he sits, his wings going through a frankly ridiculous folding routine before he seems to find some vaguely comfortable position.

 

Dean’s marrying a man not built for beds. Great.

 

“Where are my old boots?” Cas asks, looking down at his feet. “And Hannah’s belt and pouch.”

 

“Didn’t survive the lake,” Dean says.

 

“Did you bring them back?” Cas asks anyway. When Dean nods, Cas says, “I’d like them returned, regardless of condition.”

 

“Something special about them?” Dean asks, because he has to ask after everything now. For all he knows, Cas’ footwear can level mountains and raise the dead.

 

“They’re the only boots I own,” Cas says, “and if I want my belt back from Hannah, I need to return hers.”

 

“Be a shitty trade, but sure,” Dean says. He grabs the thermos of soup from the desk, fiddling with that instead of the books or the bag or, most of all, the blade. He pops the thermos lid as he speaks, but, without enchantments, the heat is gone and no steam rises. Doesn’t matter: breakfast is still breakfast. “Anything else?”

 

“I’d appreciate physical evidence of your negotiations with Raphael,” Cas tells him. “Yesterday, your father spoke as if our freedom is dependent solely upon his judgment, but you spoke of a parliament.”

 

“Wait,” Dean says, and Castiel waits, head at an attentive angle. It shouldn’t be so easy to tell, but it is. “You saying you agreed to marry me, taking everything we said about the past two weeks on faith?”

 

“I do trust you, Dean,” Cas says, which means _yes_. “But I should be as informed as possible, moving forward. I imagine this parliament of yours will wish to hear from an angel directly.”

 

It’s true. It’s one of the reasons King John went hard at Cas from the start. It’s always easier to loosen the reins than tighten them.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Gotta get you ready to lie to a bunch more people.”

 

Cas looks down. He speaks to a point three feet left of Dean’s knees. His voice is steady but quiet, almost lost beneath the sudden cacophony of birds greeting the dawn from the gardens.

 

“You could send me back,” Cas says. “Another angel would take my place, one better suited to negotiations.”

 

A gradual shift, his wings look smaller. The feathers press down, a blanket Cas has pulled tight around himself. But Cas holds firm, even looking back up at Dean’s face once he finishes speaking. The tension around his eyes is just as wrong as his wings.

 

Dean sets down the thermos and takes two steps forward to stand between Cas’ knees. “No,” he says. “You said you promised them sunlight and air. No light and air in that box?”

 

Looking up at him, Cas says “I don’t need to breathe,” as if this is meant to reassure Dean. Anyone who breathes while sleeping has to need it at least a little, if only psychologically.

 

He cups Cas’ face in his hands, the better to make his point, to prevent Cas from looking away like he keeps trying to do. “You’re not going back in that box,” Dean tells him.

 

Cas closes his eyes. Maybe in an attempt to tilt his head, he presses one cheek against Dean’s palm. He presses hard, like he’ll chase the contact to the end of the earth. “If I go in, he might send Balthazar out.” His voice breaks on that hope.

 

“Yeah, well, if you go in, they might move the portal, and Dad is way too paranoid to risk that,” Dean tells him, working off a mix of assumptions and fears. “You’re staying outside for keeps.”

 

Cas doesn’t look at him. His face motionless, Cas doesn’t make a single twitch with his wings either. Which just means Dean has to read him the way he always has, picking up on what he doesn’t say, guessing from the tension through his body.

 

Not yet knowing what to say, Dean pulls, and Cas allows it. Dean hugs Cas’ head against his chest, and Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s middle.

 

“I’ll get Sam to send you down a report,” Dean promises, dragging his fingers through Cas’ thick hair. The more he scratches Cas’ scalp, the closer Cas presses, gradually scooting to perch at the very edge of the bed. “You can write them letters tonight. Your siblings. And we’ll see if you got any mail last night, too. They know you’re alive and now they should know you’re awake.”

 

Cas nods against Dean’s shirt, his head framed by Dean’s open jacket. His wings shift, the highest joint rising up and back down, and Dean has no idea what that means until Cas shifts his arms to a tighter hold around Dean’s waist.

 

“What, I don’t get a real hug?” Dean asks. The moment it’s out of his mouth, those two immense limbs come whipping around, unfurling in one lightning-fast instant. Even braced for it, Dean flinches, and there’s no way Cas doesn’t feel that tension. Though Cas’ wings wrap around him, that circle of feathers doesn’t actually touch him, merely fences him in.

 

Dean slides one hand down Cas’ neck, down his back. He sets his palm between Cas’ wings, and when Cas accepts that, Dean touches the base of one wing. Cas holds still, breathing Dean in like air isn’t important but Dean’s scent is. So Dean dips his fingers under the back flap. Feathers turn to fluff, to fuzz, to skin. Dean touches sleep-clammy skin, and Cas is so inscrutably tense that Dean has to pull his hand away.

 

“Jo’s gonna barge back in, in a second,” he warns as an excuse. He leans back in the circle of Cas’ arms, trying to get a look at his face, but Cas only looks up once Dean starts scratching at his scalp again. “You need more sleep?”

 

His eyes hooded, head tilting whichever way Dean pushes him, Cas rasps, “I don’t know.”

 

“Yeah, you do,” Dean decides for him.

 

“I dislike the hallucinations,” Cas says.

 

“Dreams,” Dean corrects, still petting Cas’ hair. Once Cas’ eyes fall all the way shut, Dean adds, “Lie back down.”

 

A grumble low in his throat, Cas complies. He resumes his position on his stomach, arms folded under his cheek, and he cracks one eye open in a silent yet grumpy order for Dean to tell him what comes next. His hair sticks up wildly. His wings, whole and unbroken, stretch down to cover his legs, and the motion is smooth. He looks tired but solid, like a worn statue.

 

Dean’s half a second from climbing back into bed and letting training go screw itself when Jo’s footsteps come back to the door.

 

“Give me a second!” he calls preemptively, and Cas’ feathers fluff up.

 

Dean reaches out to smooth them down, but that only makes it worse. “You cold?”

 

Cas shakes his head against his arms. “I’ll be here when you return,” he promises, and Dean—well.

 

“Yeah, I know that,” Dean says, all in a rush. “No, uh, no more dying when I turn my back, all right?”

 

Through the door, Jo calls, “Dean, that was more than one second!”

 

“Go,” Cas says.

 

Dean does, taking Cas’ blade with him, but he opens the second window first.

  
  


The next time Castiel awakens, he knows the presence at the door isn’t a threat. Whether this is because he is more aware of his surroundings or because Dean isn’t there for him to protect, he’s uncertain. Regardless of the reason, he rises more smoothly, kneels facing the door, and responds, “Come in.”

 

It’s Sir Robert who opens the door, but it’s Prince Samuel who enters first, moving unsteadily with a cane. The evidence of human healing magics is apparent in his leg’s recovery, but those magics have a curious limit in how far into the body they can reach, as if humans aren’t meant to permeate each other’s bodies in such a fashion.

 

“Good morning, Castiel,” Prince Samuel greets, though the sunlight through the windows would indicate the hour closer to noon.

 

“Your Highness,” Castiel replies, ducking his head.

 

“I see Dean left the windows open,” Sir Robert says gruffly, wearing a satchel and carrying in a chair from the outer room. It’s a simple thing, wooden without a cushion, and sporting much too high a back, but Prince Samuel sits in it without complaint. Had he wings, even someone of Prince Samuel’s height would find the shape of the chair awkward, but Prince Samuel actually leans back against it when he takes the weight off his injured leg.

 

“He was very kind,” Castiel says to Sir Robert, who stands over the warded prince. There’s no warding visible on either of them, but neither man is a fool. Prince Samuel wears thin gloves despite the warm temperature. To him, Castiel adds, “Sir Dean said he would ask Your Highness to send information, not send Your Highness yourself.”

 

“Cas,” Prince Samuel says. “Seriously, call me Sam. I know my dad’s downplaying it, but you saved my life ten different ways that night.” His lips quirk in a way almost like Dean’s. “Besides, I don’t know if this is how angels see it, but by our customs, once you and Dean marry, you and I will be brothers.”

 

Castiel tilts his head, considering that previously known but very abstract concept. “Will Lady Jessica be my sister?”

 

“Faintly by custom, but not at all by law,” Prince Samuel—Sam—replies. “Also, your siblings won’t be considered my siblings, but they will be Dean’s.”

 

“This seems needlessly complicated,” Castiel tells him, but the notion of having a full set of four siblings again isn’t a bad one. With two of those siblings human, he will be back to Balthazar and Hannah alone within a century, and yet, it is still a pleasant thought.

 

“’Needlessly complicated’ is why I’m here,” Prince Sam says. He reaches up without looking, and Sir Robert puts the satchel in his hands. “Have you read any of the books I sent?”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I’ve been recovering.”

 

Sir Robert snorts. “Not sure what kind of ’recovery’ has Dean showing up this morning in yesterday’s rumpled clothes.”

 

Prince Sam’s eyes widen. “Dean did mention the consummation laws, right?”

 

“He did, and they were not relevant,” Castiel replies. Staring down Sir Robert, he explains, “In manifesting my blade to give to Dean, I expended the majority of my energy. I can only assume he remained to monitor my condition. I was unconscious until Dame Joanna woke us this morning.”

 

“Well, that’s… good,” Prince Sam says slowly. He finishes unfastening the satchel’s clasps and slides out a significant number of letters. “Now, do you want to go through them chronologically, or do you want to start with the letters Seraphim Hannah and Balthazar sent you last night?”

 

Castiel tamps down instinct and goes with reason. “Chronologically. Please.”

 

Nodding, Prince Sam shuffles the papers around on his lap. He hands the correct ones to Sir Robert, who then relays them to the bed. Castiel kneels on the far side, the better to let his wings hang off the edge, and so there is plenty of space for the letters.

 

Enough space, even, that Castiel would have to shuffle forward to reach with his hands.

 

So he doesn’t.

 

The eyes of both humans widen dramatically when Castiel reaches with his wing. He keeps his flight feathers politely to himself, but both humans look outright amazed when Castiel performs the simple task of picking up the letters with his alula, pinching the paper against the wrist of his wing. He pretends not to notice, too busy opening the unsealed envelope of the first letter by hand.

 

The contents take him by surprise. He doesn’t know the handwriting in ink, but it quickly becomes apparent that it belongs, in fact, to Dean. The letter is a strange combination of terse explanations, distant condolences, and barely veiled accusations. On the back of the page, there is Hannah’s reply. He reads her response with a thumb pressed against the dried blood of her words. He reads her carefully controlled grief, her frustration, her rage. He feels the faded echoes of her grace.

 

He reads that, in his death, they had promised his blade to Dean, and he tells himself this was merely Balthazar’s final attempt to embarrass him, even beyond the reach of life itself. Surely Castiel couldn’t have been so obvious.

 

He reads the claim that their own arms are full and knows they can’t be; surely if Uriel died with his blade manifested, it wouldn’t allow them to accept it into themselves.

 

He stares at those lines much too long.

 

He moves on to the next letter and the next, watching information be exchanged and trust be withheld. These next are all written in ink, and the versions of Dean’s letters are all drafts, many including scratched out lines and blots of ink. He sees Dean’s anger and his siblings’ frustration. Hannah and Balthazar answer Dean’s questions for a tracking spell, and Dean’s replies cut out entirely. After that point, the letters are solely between Castiel’s siblings and Prince Sam. Hannah seems to hate Prince Sam less, and, as always, it’s difficult to know Balthazar’s true feelings without seeing him in person.

 

The letters turn into a side commentary on the political situation. Mention of both Castiel and Dean stops entirely. Balthazar takes over the writing, explaining Lucifer’s motivations at the time of his rebellion, the only archangel of the four who felt they should rule over the lowlands as well as the mountains and skies. Raphael had disdained the idea of coming down so low; Gabriel hadn’t cared for organized involvement; and Michael had been too concerned with encroaching dragons to bother about humans.

 

The tipping point had been Lucifer’s creation of demons. For the first time, an archangel had followers who were solely his own. At least in name, all lesser angels were shared among them. Though the management of their society had been divided, their numbers never were—in theory, if not in practice. It was that consolidation of power, rather than his abuse of lives, that had provoked action from the other three archangels, and the rest was history.

 

Discussion of that history lasts a few letters before one of Prince Sam’s drafts takes an entirely new direction. As Castiel frowns down at the page, Prince Sam says aloud, “Sorry, that one’s a little messy.”

 

It’s extremely messy. In giving news that Castiel might still be alive, Prince Sam had a difficult time picking his words. The hope he’d urged was a cautious one. Every letter after is a discussion-bordering-on-debate as to how Castiel could have survived the blood sigil. Hannah was hopeful. Balthazar was outright dismissive of human magic in general and human tracking spells in particular. Each of their letters begins with some variation on “I presume our brother has yet to be found” and continues with Balthazar focusing on politics and Hannah interrogating Prince Sam about tracking spells for creatures living and dead.

 

Castiel reads through them all, every open letter. Prince Sam and Sir Robert merely wait and watch, clarifying only after Castiel asks a question. At last finished with the opened letters, Castiel arrives at what must be last night’s mail. He pulls the letters close, transferring them from wing to hand, and the number is wrong. “Where’s the other one?” he asks.

 

Prince Sam doesn’t quite frown, though Sir Robert certainly makes up for his lack. “What do you mean?” Prince Sam asks.

 

“There’s only two,” Castiel says. “Where’s—”

 

And he remembers.

 

“There’s only two,” Castiel repeats, this time a statement of fact, not an argument. Only two.

 

He opens Balthazar’s letter first. The message is short, angry and coolly sarcastic in turns, because that is the shape of his worry. Hannah’s following sincerity is harder to bear.

 

He closes his eyes, holding their words in his mind. They who were five are now three, but his siblings had thought they were only two. And that is not to be borne.

 

“Am I permitted to reply?” Castiel asks of Prince Sam.

 

“Of course,” Prince Sam says, looking… surprised? At the question. “You’re not our prisoner, Cas.”

 

Holding his gaze, Castiel gestures to the walls, still chalked with warding. “I understand that you can’t risk my leaving.”

 

Looking up at the wards, Prince Sam nods. The shift of his jaw changes the shape of his face, and then Prince Sam stands, pushing down hard on his cane. Sir Robert shifts, perhaps to support him, perhaps to stop him, but ultimately holds position. Standing on one leg, Prince Sam drags the end of his cane across a chalk line on the wall. He breaks another line on the ceiling. When he sits, only the sigil on the door remains, and Castiel could break through the wall to get around that.

 

“You plucked me out of the sky,” Prince Sam says. “You could have dropped me or used me, but you brought me down. You learned I was a vessel and told no one. Seraph Castiel, I trust you.”

 

Castiel bows his head. In humility, in shame, in avoidance of Sir Robert’s skeptical expression. “Thank you,” he says.

 

“Now let’s get you caught up on everything before Parliament wants to talk to you,” Prince Sam continues.

 

“Sounded like they wanted to this morning,” Sir Robert says.

 

“You’re officially convalescing for today,” Prince Sam tells Castiel. “Parliament will be tomorrow, plus other heads of state who are sitting in. As far as they’re concerned, you’re still too out of it to sit up unaided, so I’d ask you to stay away from the windows.”

 

“I’ll remain in bed,” Castiel promises. He can feel the air moving from there easily enough. “What must I know?”

 

Prince Sam outlines the arrangement as it currently stands. Three angels stationed in each nation, in defense against monsters, demons, and natural disasters; they answer directly to the head of state rather than to Raphael until the end of the term, as agreed upon in the treaty. They are forbidden from partaking in armed inter-human conflicts, from war to policing. The line of stipulations is long enough to build a mountain range upon, but there are a few glaring insults.

 

“The proposed term of service is three hundred years,” Castiel repeats.

 

Prince Sam nods.

 

“What do you think of this?” Castiel asks.

 

“I think we need a few clauses about countries dissolving or combining,” Prince Sam says. “A lot could happen in that time.”

 

Castiel stares at him.

 

Prince Sam meets his gaze steadily. “That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.”

 

“No,” Castiel says. “Tell me, was that the span of time offered or one you selected yourselves?”

 

“He offered two hundred,” Prince Sam says. He inspects Castiel’s face and then, more tellingly, looks to Castiel’s motionless wings. “So. How insulted should we be?”

 

“We don’t have a history of negotiating,” Castiel begins. “We don’t have a history of any large scale interaction, beyond several treaties with the fae. That Archangel Raphael is lowering himself to negotiate with your species at all is remarkable.”

 

“So we should be insulted across the board,” Prince Sam says, “but also pretend to be honored.”

 

“Essentially,” Castiel agrees.

 

“If you were negotiating with the fae, what kind of length of term would you expect?”

 

“With the fae,” Castiel says, “I would expect a thousand years.”

 

Sir Robert’s eyebrows make an attempt to rise off his head. “Well then,” he says.

 

“I want to know what’s reasonable for an angel,” Prince Sam says. “What do you expect, what do you assume, all of that, for all of the conditions and stipulations. But starting with this, how long do you feel is reasonable? What if we wanted the term to match how long you spent in that realm?”

 

“Six hundred forty-eight years,” Castiel provides.

 

“Call it six fifty for convenience’s sake,” Prince Sam says. “Would that be a reasonable amount of time?”

 

“I think it’s suitably significant,” Castiel replies, “but then, I am very young.”

 

Prince Sam grins, as if at a joke. When Castiel tilts his head, that grin falters. “Are you really?”

 

“There are only eight younger than myself and my siblings,” Castiel replies. “That will change once we hatch the eggs in Heaven, but yes, I am a young angel.”

 

“Wow,” Prince Sam says. “Uh. Wow. All right. So, um. Right, if we call the term of service a symbolic length, we’ve a good reason for trying to bump it up to six fifty.” His eyes shift to the side, his expression increasingly distant. He nods. “Honestly, I don’t know if any of our governments will even last that long.”

 

Castiel frowns, remembering to use his face. “Why not?”

 

“Look, speaking just for us,” Prince Sam says, “we try to get the next heir lined up every twenty-five or so years. I turned twenty-five, I married Jess, we’re already trying for kids. My grandmother took a longer while in having my dad, and my parents took a couple years, too, but, more or less, we’re aiming at four generations every century. That’s twenty-six generations, Cas, in six and a half centuries. Twenty to twenty-six, as an estimate. At least twenty different rulers between now and the end of that term.”

 

Castiel looks at this man, this young human man, and has the creeping realization that, very soon, Prince Sam will die. Sooner even than Dean, without Castiel able to freely heal him.

 

“Oh,” Castiel says.

 

“What do you think of that?” Prince Sam asks, mirroring Castiel’s earlier question.

 

“I think,” Castiel says slowly, “that if your brother is going to die that quickly, I should marry him as soon as possible.”

 

Prince Sam blinks, then grins. “Not my question, but you’re right. We should cement this soon.”

 

“That isn’t my point either, but I agree,” Castiel replies, and Prince Sam grins wider. Sir Robert huffs out a breath and regards Castiel with what can only be deep suspicion. Prince Sam looks back at Sir Robert, and Sir Robert pulls his expression back to neutral, as if the lack of facial expressions is more difficult to muster than their manifestation.

 

They continue their discussion, Prince Sam curious about what little matters might qualify as a breach of manners. Ultimately, Prince Sam describes what typical negotiations look like, and Castiel corrects the offenses as they come. Between offers of sustenance and the presumption that Raphael would need a chair, there are many. Sir Robert lets out grumbling patches of commentary that Castiel inwardly agrees with, but pride is pride, and Raphael’s must already be sorely bruised by the position Castiel has placed him in.

 

As they speak, Prince Sam occasionally glances back at Sir Robert in his position before the door, but he asks Sir Robert no questions. It’s almost a cursory look, a check to see him still there. While Castiel is explaining the possible offense of containing an archangel within a building, Prince Sam lifts a hand chest high, palm toward Castiel, clearly expecting this to silence him. Castiel silences himself, curious, and Prince Sam turns to Sir Robert.

 

“Bobby, will you let Dean in?” he asks.

 

Sir Robert doesn’t so much as blink. He does look at Castiel with mistrust, but he nods. “Yes, Your Highness,” he answers, the title more of a nickname than a motion of respect. In leaving the room, he hesitates before leaving the door open.

 

A moment later, heard through the walls, footsteps come pounding up the stairs. A door opens, a surprised voice says “Bobby?” before immediately adding “Sammy, we got news!”

 

Dean comes rushing in before Sir Robert returns. Dean’s face is flushed. Sweat shines at his hairline. His jacket is short, the better to be worn over a sword, and he wears the same short scabbard from the final night of Prince Sam’s party. He wears Castiel’s blade.

 

Dean’s eyes seek out Prince Sam first before snapping to Castiel. “We got news,” Dean repeats.

 

“Omens?” Prince Sam asks.

 

“Omens,” Dean agrees. Then he kicks the leg of Prince Sam’s chair.

 

“Dean!” both Prince Sam and Sir Robert shout in protest.

 

“You wanna tell me why Mom’s range stretched that far south, bitch?” Dean demands of his brother. “You’re supposed to be recovering, not spilling out your lifeblood every other day.”

 

“Finding Lucifer _is_ self-preservation, Dean,” Prince Sam tells him. “If it worked, it was the right decision.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, and he looks at Castiel a bit too pointedly for Castiel’s preferences.

 

“Dean, you came to get Sam for a reason,” Sir Robert reminds him.

 

“No, I came to get Cas,” Dean says. To Castiel, still standing on the far side of the bed, he adds, “Parliament wants you _today_ , man. We got a place to deploy to, but no angels to deploy.”

 

“They want to send me?” Castiel asks, frowning. He adds the facial expression a moment too late, but Dean’s already shaking his head.

 

“Hammering down the treaty. Gotta get a representative in front of them, and that’s you.” Dean circles around the bed as Prince Sam stands. “You good to move?”

 

Careful about it, Castiel shuffles backward off the side of the bed. He puts down one foot and the other, wings a quarter stretched for balance’s sake. Dean hovers at his side, hands partially raised to catch him. “I can manage,” Castiel tells him, nevertheless indulging in the pretense of Dean’s support. He’s still tired, perhaps enough to sleep, but his balance has vastly improved since this morning.

 

“We’re going by carriage,” Dean tells him, “so you don’t have far to walk. Sam, you coming, too?”

 

Prince Sam nods, then perks up. “I’ll have to sit up front with the driver. For safety. If Cas is in the carriage.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, get your ass downstairs, daredevil.”

 

Getting down the stairs is as awkward an affair for Castiel as it is for Prince Sam. Apparently, he’s not as recovered as he’d thought. “C’mon, mojo up,” Dean tells him. He draws Castiel’s blade and presses the hilt against his hand. “Give it back once we’re there.”

 

Castiel nods and forces himself to act on practicality, not sentiment.

 

The carriage is cramped inside. Positioning his wings in a way that allows him to sit on the long padded bench of a seat results in him taking up an entire side of the carriage, his colors displayed. Dean and Sir Robert take the other bench, Prince Sam tucked in between them. He, too, has been forced to practicality over sentiment, needing to prep Castiel further on matters of Parliament.

 

They ride with curtains pulled shut over the carriage windows, and the sounds of human life beyond serve as an incessant distraction. The carriage bumps hard over something, Castiel hears a splash, and both Sir Robert and Dean shoot out an arm across Prince Sam to keep him from falling back against Castiel.

 

“What was that sound?” Castiel asks. “The wet noise.”

 

“A puddle,” Prince Sam tells him without the confused staring Dean puts on. “You don’t know a lot of ground noises, do you?”

 

“Did it rain?” Castiel asks, unexpectedly gutted by the thought. “I saw the skies were overcast, but I didn’t see it rain.”

 

“It did while you were asleep,” Dean tells him, and he watches Castiel’s wings rather than his face. There’s no possibility of him missing the turn of Castiel’s feathers. Dean frowns before his eyes widen. “Oh,” he says. He stretches out his leg and presses his boot against Castiel’s flight feathers, the motion subtle enough that his brother and Sir Robert might not observe it. “You’ll see the next one. Next time it rains, you can even be outside for it.”

 

“I’d like that,” Castiel understates. He’d never much cared for flying through clouds when they were common nuisances, too much of his grace tied up in keeping his feathers from freezing, but that attitude has had centuries to change.

 

Once the carriage stops but before they disembark, Castiel manifests his blade once more and returns it to Dean. Though there is still some faint dizziness, it costs him less this time.

 

They climb out, Sir Robert first, Prince Sam and his cane second, then Dean and Castiel last of all. Prince Sam asks Dean, “How did you manage that for three days?”

 

“His longer feathers were cut off on the right, so we could tilt him,” Dean explains, answering a question Castiel himself had been wondering.

 

“My primary flight feathers,” Castiel clarifies, indicating them.

 

“Dean, you really need to learn what your husband’s body parts are called,” Prince Sam mocks with a smile.

 

“Consummation laws, Sammy,” Dean answers, winking. He looks back at Castiel. “Haven’t had the chance for a lesson.”

 

Castiel smiles as best he can, in the human manner, and the way Dean looks back at him nearly makes the rest of the day worth it, as is Dean’s reverence when Cas returns his blade. They all agree Dean should be seen wearing it.

 

Parliament the building is an immense stone edifice, full of high arches and stylized warding. The hallways are tall enough and wide enough that Castiel could comfortably stretch, which he does before they head inside the actual meeting hall. The pages minding the door stare at him. One presses back against the papered wall with eyes wide with fear, but no one makes a move against Castiel, particularly not after Prince Sam politely inquires as to how Castiel’s wings are healing.

 

Parliament the group of humans is a countless number of mages, each arrayed in what Castiel presumes to be fine clothing. Despite being announced before he enters, his appearance nevertheless takes many of these lords and ladies aback. To a mage, they fall silent in a room not built for silence.

 

How many of them Castiel had met during Prince Sam’s party, he has no idea. The humans are arranged in a long half-circle and are jarringly identical in appearance without the aid of costumes. There is some variation in skin and hair color, but far from enough to make each individual distinct without memorizing their specific facial features. The one human Castiel confidently recognizes, he knows best by the crown.

 

Prince Sam takes a place beside his father, bowing to him before sitting at his right hand. At the king’s left are a number of others, also wearing crowns and circlets; foreign heads of state, perhaps. Sir Robert remains by the door at their backs, and Dean guides Castiel forward to take the floor. Dean steadies Castiel as if he needs to be steadied. He holds Castiel’s arm and they walk together, not as they had at the party, but as an aide assisting an invalid. Castiel allows himself to lean.

 

There is a swearing in ritual, attesting to his name, rank, and honesty. Dean prompts him where he needs prompting. The questions begin, and Dean preempts many of Castiel’s answers with the polite but firm request to have pertinent sections of the latest draft of the treaty read aloud. Dean turns formal in his strength, a polished politician Castiel wouldn’t have recognized if he hadn’t already memorized Dean’s face. Even his voice changes, his tones and cadences.

 

And so Castiel answers all that is put to him, to the best of his ability. He speaks of his people, of their history. He explains that they have no interest in the lowlands, or indeed any land beyond their mountaintops. He speaks of the basic semblance of trade they once engaged in, feats of magic and healing in exchange for the trappings they never deigned to craft themselves; he adds that their exile has increased their appreciation for those goods, once they were truly limited to all they carried upon their backs.

 

He speaks of the creation of demons. Of Michael’s censure and Lucifer’s rebellion. Of five centuries of worsening battles against more and more demons, culminating in the plan of banishment. He speaks of Raphael as he was then, a healer and one ruler of a triad, balanced by his remaining brothers. He speaks of Michael’s stratagems and Gabriel’s crafts.

 

He speaks until his body tells him he was wrong to stand. He leans on Dean more and more heavily. One member of Parliament sitting at the end of the half-circle asks him a question, and in turning to face her, Castiel nearly loses his balance. He catches himself, snapping a wing around Dean’s shoulders, and more than one human in the room shouts.

 

“I have him!” Dean calls out, polite and cheerful, as if those cries of alarm had been for Castiel’s sake. “I understand it’s against tradition, but wishing no insult to the respected members of Parliament, I would request a stool for my betrothed.”

 

“I don’t need one,” Castiel says, still holding onto Dean with both arms and wing. He keeps his voice low and shakes his head, but when he begins to fold his wing, Dean reaches up with his free hand to take hold, keeping Castiel’s wing around his shoulder.

 

Dean drops his mouth low to Castiel’s ear and murmurs, “Unless you’re aiming for a cuddle in front of every major government on the continent, we should get you that chair.”

 

Castiel returns this sentiment with a significant look that Dean, remarkably, seems to understand. Dean winks back.

 

A page fetches Castiel a stool, and he perches for the remainder of the session, Dean remaining at his side to steady him and clarify the strangeness of humanity.

 

The gist of the session points Castiel toward several conclusions:

 

First, the degree of omens in the south points to a concentration of demons not seen since the days of the war, pre-banishment. Lucifer has been found, and he is protected.

 

Second, until those demons gathered, most of Parliament didn’t seem to understand the danger Lucifer posed. Even the many members who had themselves fled out of the throne room from Lucifer that night weeks ago had downplayed the threat. Though these people don’t truly believe in angels—even when seeing one before them—they are clearly well-versed in the dangers of demons.

 

Third, and perhaps most crucially, despite Prince Sam’s views and Dean’s summaries of the situation, many of them require further swaying to Castiel’s side. This is nothing like the straightforward rule of an archangel triad, or a single archangel. They all have their own interests, their own views, and Castiel has never been considered an orator.

 

There comes a break in the proceedings—a recess—and Castiel has a moment to hurriedly write to his siblings. He tells them he is safe, and mending, and engaged. He writes to them of the day he has just had, that he is currently having, and he hopes the summary of the questions put to him will serve as a useful reconnaissance.

 

Then the humans finish eating their dinners and Castiel’s letter is rushed away. Members of Parliament grumble about “keeping wartime hours” for this matter, and there is no amount of glaring King John can do to put an end to this. It is jarring to see the limits of his power, and Castiel must wonder where the true power resides. Is it truly so split? And how? On what merit?

 

He begins to ask these questions of Dean, who merely shakes his head and holds a finger to his lips. The sight serves to silence Castiel more than the actual request for silence.

 

Having rested during the recess, Castiel stands once more. He seems now to be present as a figure to gesture to and point at, rather than an actual participant. Though no longer physically supporting him, Dean still stands beside him that full span of time, as if they are truly and wholly united.

 

Listening to the debates around them, Castiel watches Dean, knowing best his reactions. Dean watches him back. They are surrounded and they are alone. They are powerless in these proceedings, their battle already fought.

 

Slowly, Dean shifts his hand to the hilt of Castiel’s blade. The full press of his palm. His fingers curling.

 

Castiel breathes steadily, as if his chest is not tight. He keeps his feathers neutral. He keeps his hands to himself. He simply looks, watching the slow swipe of Dean’s thumb over the pommel.

 

Around them, the future of Castiel’s entire species is decided, and though Castiel has no further say in it, he does have this.

  
  


The decision comes only once everyone understands that, otherwise, they are well and truly fucked. The demons amassing down south are a gathered force unlike anything they’ve seen in Dean’s lifetime, or in his father’s, or in Grammy Millie’s. It takes a few days for those reports to come in, but during that time, Dean’s already prepping the castle against Lucifer.

 

The night after they take Cas to Parliament is the last night Cas actually sleeps. He and Dean spend the next day armed with chalk and paint, Cas attempting to break into the castle and Dean keeping him out. Neither of them is permitted to join in the anticipated battle to the south, each too important to the treaty, and it seems to sit as poorly with Cas as it does with Dean.

 

After a full morning and most of an afternoon of warding the castle against angels, Cas touches his shoulder. A day out in the sunlight has done Cas good, but he’s tense in a way Dean’s starting to recognize in the folds of his wings.

 

“What’s up?” Dean asks, washing his hands of paint in the gardener’s pump. He’d do it inside, but then, Cas can’t exactly follow him in now, can he?

 

“Are we going to live together?” Cas asks. Though Dean nods in answer, Cas doesn’t look reassured. “Where?” he asks.

 

“Not sure,” Dean says honestly, straightening up. His back tries to crack, but Cas shifts his hand from Dean’s shoulder. The instant Cas touches a finger to the side of Dean’s neck, the pain fades, a shivering warmth flooding through his body in one too quick wave. “Dude, don’t do that. Seriously, why can’t anyone hold off on the magic? You’re supposed to be resting up.”

 

“No other part of today was spent ‘resting up,’ Dean,” Cas replies, looking at Dean that way he does. Then the look changes to that _other_ look he has for Dean, and he leans in close, voice lowered. “Also, this is the only way I’m currently permitted to be inside you.”

 

An entirely different kind of shivering warmth makes its way through Dean. Before he can get his mouth to form words—something around the lines of “I’m looking forward to it” except with maybe more profanity—Cas adds, “I do understand you won’t be able to take my blade, but it is an enjoyable thought.” And he strokes Dean’s forearm, thumb sliding down from the crook of Dean’s elbow to his palm.

 

Dean’s straining mind hovers on an edge before flipping back the way it had come. “Cas,” he says, and laughs, catching Cas’ hand. “For the record, when a human talks about being inside you, he ain’t talking about the magical blade part of marriage vows.”

 

There’s the briefest second before Cas gets it. Those blue eyes widen and then Cas actually fucking _blushes_. But he doesn’t withdraw his hand from Dean’s. Lips parted, he looks down at Dean’s mouth, then at the rest of him.

 

“You really haven’t?” Dean asks. “Ever? We’re a long way past purity laws, Cas, I ain’t gonna judge you.”

 

Cas shakes his head, shifting closer. His wings widen, peeking out farther and farther around his shoulders, but he doesn’t wrap Dean up in them again. “Is that so surprising?”

 

“Yeah, man,” Dean says. “You’re fucking _old_.”

 

“You think I’m old?” Cas asks, his feathers fluffing up in two soft waves out from his center. It looks gorgeous and touchable, and so Dean touches, running his palms over sunlight-warmed softness.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and Cas smiles at him like it’s an art form he’s been practicing.

 

“There were a few people I might have considered, if they had survived the war until our banishment,” Cas says. He shrugs, another practiced motion, or maybe he just pushes up his wings into Dean’s hands. “But none did. So I ask you, how are we to cohabitate?”

 

“When we’re out on patrol, none of the roadhouses will be warded against you,” Dean promises. “As for here... I don’t know. Some of the warding will have to come down for wherever Hannah and Balthazar end up.”

 

“But we will be together?” Cas asks, so earnest that Dean wants to forgive him everything. Maybe someday, he even will.

 

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean promises. “We’ll be together.”

 

They’re together the next day, but not the day after that. Parliament sends Cas to survey the demon threat and, with great misgivings, King John permits him to go. Cas flies away in the morning and flies back by mid-afternoon, carrying letters and reports in a satchel strapped to his middle.

 

He lands with clear elation and a huge amount of spectacle, as word has spread through the city that an angel will be flying into Parliament that day. And so Cas comes swooping in over crowds to the sound of cheers and shouts. If, standing on the Parliament steps and waiting to receive him, Dean takes advantage of the situation and kisses his fiance in front of a crowd that thinks Cas a hero, well. It’s nothing his dad can get mad at him for doing.

 

The reports carry the seal of a commander stationed two days hard ride to the south, the kind of hard ride that exhausts horses, angers the post office stables, and destroys the rider’s ass. In one direction.

 

Cas had fetched and returned the reports in just under eight hours. While still recuperating. He’s damp with cloud water and splattered with bugs, but his eyes shine the way they do after a night of dancing. So, yeah, Dean kisses him on the steps of Parliament, bug splatter and all. People cheer and Dean tells Cas to wave. Dean demonstrates, just in case this is one of those human things Cas only pretends to get, but when Cas turns to wave at the crowds with an entire wing raised high, people go nuts.

 

The royal family is bringing about a time of angels, is the way it’s being phrased on the streets. The Mage Prince’s teacher found them, the royal family is restoring them to the world, and the Knight Prince is marrying one. The rumors of Cas’ rank and origins go wild, and more than one scholar manages to find records—fables—of Seraph Castiel defeating Archdemon Alistair.

 

“They fucking love you, man,” Dean says into Cas’ ear, not bothering to whisper beneath the roar of that shouting.

 

“Why?” Cas asks, his head tilted toward confusion.

 

“They think you guys are going to be the end to demons,” Dean says. “That you gave everything to save us, and that’s why we gotta ‘rescue’ you out of that realm in the first place.”

 

“But humans were never more than a passing consideration,” Cas says, and Dean shushes him.

 

“Yeah, don’t tell people that,” Dean says.

 

They wave again, this time with Cas wrapping one wing around Dean’s shoulders, and then head inside.

 

What follows is a great deal of standing around and saying nothing while other people read those reports aloud, but what it all boils down to is, they’re screwed without some help. Which means it is officially time to set that help loose, which means it naturally takes two more days. Which is rushing it. Because even with Lucifer getting ready to regain consciousness any day now, they still need to safeguard the crap out of things so that, one, the released angels don’t proceed to destroy all the humans, and, two, the humans don’t all end up going at each other.

 

So all the usual politics, except higher risk and at higher speeds.

  
  


Cas keeps flying reports and orders, and Dean keeps standing around looking pretty. But when the angel releasing day comes, less than a week after Cas awaking, less than a month since they met, it comes in full pageantry.

 

The night before, they sent letters formalizing the treaty and specifying the time and place to move the portal. The day of the release, they troop down to the specified location: a field lying fallow on the outskirts of the city. It’s an inauspicious place, a long expanse of dirt and weeds that themselves seem bewildered to be playing host to royalty. But it is a large, open space nearby, and a much better location than the palatial complex to release a couple thousand angels out of a giant portal. Both the landlord owning the fields and the farmers tending them have been compensated for their use, one for the disruption upon the land, the other for the disruption to their work.

 

On the human side of things, they approach by carriage and on horseback. The last minor portal is to open at noon, and everything is fully arranged by ten that morning. Rugs cover the dirt, and every uneven step crunches the dry grass beneath. There is a pavilion tent up, this one without the angel warding, and all the big names of the nation and their neighbors mill about beneath the cream fabric.

 

Crowds gather, as crowds tend to do. Dean, among others, herds them back to a reasonable distance, shouting from horseback about the space the spell requires. Cas circling above doesn’t particularly help, drawing the eye, pulling fingers to point, and guiding in far too many curious bodies. Ultimately, Dean canters back up the road a bit, waves Cas down, and they control the crowd that way, by giving them something to gawk at.

 

When the hour approaches, everyone takes their positions, arrayed on those rugs in a receiving line. They scan the field for the golden mist of Cas’ last portal back into that box. When it appears, everyone on the rugs politely applauds, perhaps at the sight, perhaps for the cartographer who successfully gave the angels directions for moving their portal. But probably for the spectacle. From far off the rugs, there are whoops and cheers, and thus comes the moment of transfer.

 

Despite the unwieldiness of his cane, Sam carries the warded box, the tablet within. He stands at their father’s right, Dean at King John’s left. With the portal at his back, Cas faces King John, who withdraws the tablet from the box Sam carries. The moment is heavier than the stone, but after one final tense exchange of dutiful words, Cas has the tablet in his hands.

 

Cas has the tablet, and despite the plethora of words and arrangements exchanged, the only thing they truly, physically have to bind the angels to their promises—the _one_ thing—is the blade Dean wears on his hip. And the only angel this might hold is Cas, one out of thousands. They can renege.

 

Dean’s stomach twists with the nausea of a mistake not yet enacted, and Cas’ eyes leave King John to look at Dean with joy. Lips pressed together, Dean says nothing. He isn’t called upon to say anything. He simply nods, permitting Cas to go, permitting whatever is to come, to come.

 

When they planned this, Cas was simply meant to turn and walk into the portal. There wasn’t a practice run, but that was what was agreed upon. Now, however, unscripted, when Cas turns, he stretches one wing back to press a flight feather against Dean’s empty palm. Standing close, the reach is small, but as Castiel walks forward toward that swirling golden mist, he stretches his wing back farther and farther, a long black and gray display for everyone to see.

 

If it’s meant to reassure, it doesn’t. If it’s meant to remind Dean of that final night, the way Cas had clung to him while intending to leave him forever, if it’s meant to do that, then it succeeds in spades.

 

So Dean grips that feather tight. He doesn’t pull or tug or shout for Cas to halt where he stands. He keeps the urge under his skin and behind his teeth, and when Cas reaches the portal Dean does, in fact, let go.

 

The golden mist takes Castiel the same way it had taken so many letters. Cas walks into the heart of it and simply doesn’t come out the other side of the shine.

 

The portal evaporates.

 

The field is empty, and as the minutes crawl past, the field remains empty.

 

The sounds of murmuring reach Dean’s ears, then impatient speech from the pavilion tent. As aristocrats and diplomats quietly wonder what’s taking so long, some in murmurs, some in hissed speech, Dean stands firm next to his father and looks at no one. Back in the pavilion tent, he knows Mary is urging patience.

 

When it has to be an hour later, someone informs them that it’s been ten minutes. About thirty years later, it’s been a full half an hour.

 

Dean stands there, and stands there, the sun beating down on him and his father’s gaze upon the side of his face. Every interaction he has ever had with Cas flashes in front of his eyes, and he tightens his hand on the blade’s hilt. When Dean can take the pressure no longer, he asks, “Sam? How’s the leg?”

 

“I can hold out until they come,” Sam answers with the firm voice of a man who has had a vision. Which he hasn’t, not unless it was while he was standing here, but their dad doesn’t have to know that.

 

“How much longer?” Dean asks.

 

“Oh, I’d say,” Sam begins to say—before the entire world interrupts him.

 

The entire sky.

 

The full noon sky splits open. Above their heads. Above the field. Above the world.

 

It cracks open. One long, trembling line splits the sky. A bolt of lightning, turned sideways. A comet, frozen in place. Gold flashes and fizzles against the blue.

 

It solidifies.

 

It parts.

 

Bursts of white blaze along the golden line, and from each flash, an angel drops. The first is a dark smudge against the sky, framed by silver. Then comes brown and black, bronze and gray. They drop headfirst before flaring their wings, displaying their colors, and they soar back skywards.

 

Shouts and cheers ring out from the humans awaiting this spectacle, this release, this immense risk. Overhead, the golden line turns white along its entire length, angel after angel swooping down out of nothingness.

 

Bronze, sandy tan, copper, midnight blue, reds muted and fiery, white and dappled, onyx black, greens of grass and pine, burnt orange, every shade of brown, gleaming silver, a glimpse of purple, yellows faded and bright; in rapid, unrelenting succession they come, colors in every combination. The sky goes dark with the multitude of wingspans. As a shiver from more than mere shade creeps up Dean’s spine and his craned neck, the angels begin to sing.

 

It isn’t one song but many, discordant in an uncoordinated rush of joy. They swoop and soar and spread out, many immediately flying due south. Their numbers still blot out the sun, still cover up the flashes of light heralding their kin, and though Dean should be keeping watch for Raphael’s silver wings—had he been the first?—all his eyes seek is a shock of cinder gray beneath black.

 

They stand and stare, watching an exodus of thousands, an army they have released on their own doorstep. The angels wheel above in countless circles. The flock grows, massive and seemingly effortless in its coordination. Their singing unifies, full of joy and triumph in a language Dean doesn’t understand. None descend. More and more follow in a constant blaze of light, and as the angels clear that space for more to come, it is as if the sun itself has shifted in the sky, transformed from a ball to a streak of white fire.

 

Dean hears the soft crunch of dry grass under carpet, but when he turns, it’s his mother. He steps to the side, and Mary takes her place between him and King John. They might hold hands. They might not. They all stare up at the sky, long past the points of their necks aching.

 

More and more angels head south, and clearing space for their fellows is like draining a lake by the bucket. A living rainbow of a cloud, casting dappled shadows; the swirling mass of them stretches imposingly high. It’s more than an army: it’s the entire population of a nation. And with that viewpoint, it turns remarkably small, wingspan aside.

 

“We should have brought telescopes,” Mary says to King John, and when Dean looks over, John is actually smiling faintly at that, at her.

 

Past them, his eyes still fixed on the sky, Sam says, “Dean.”

 

Dean looks. The line splitting the sky is nearly solid gold once more. There is one final flash of white, a white that births black marked with gray, and the golden line vanishes. Immediately, two closely wheeling angels peel off from the flock above, swooping down at that final angel.

 

For the first time, angels collide.

 

Mary catches Dean’s hand, and she’s close enough and against a large enough backdrop of spectacle that perhaps no one sees. She catches his hand and holds him in place as Cas plummets to the field with two brown-winged angels in tight pursuit. The sandy brown follows faster, practically on top of Cas, and a glint shines off something the darker brown carries, too close to the silver gleam of an angel blade for comfort.

 

The instant before they strike the field, Cas’ wings flare out. He and the other angel spin in a tight circle, wings flapping or striking as their feet hit the ground, and the third drops down on them both. Black wings wrap tight around that third angel, and sandy brown wings envelop them both. They stagger and straighten and stop moving.

 

Slowly, the bile pushing up Dean’s throat eases back down.

 

They’re hugging. That’s—that’s Hannah and Balthazar.

 

Dean’s future siblings-in-law.

 

He swallows the rest of the bile down as Mary squeezes his hand, and for just a second, he thinks it’s in support. Then he looks up, and, yeah, all right, that’s a pretty badass descent going on. Feet first, silver wings cupped downward, Archangel Raphael condescends his way out of the sky. About thirty feet up, he flaps his wings hard. Dry grass blows away. Dirt flies up. The heavy rug, weighted down, tries to shift.

 

Then Archangel Raphael lands, and Dean experiences a strangely amused sense of terror, because Cas was right:

 

The guy really doesn’t look a thing like he did in that tapestry.

  
  


Castiel holds Hannah tight, and Balthazar holds them tighter, because even now, Balthazar would insist on having his wings on the outside. It’s an obnoxious piece of power play Castiel is too relieved to resist. They hold each other, the ground too soft beneath their feet. The air is full, the sun is bright, and _they are never going back_.

 

“You stupid, moronic,” Balthazar mutters, an on-going slew of insults and grievances that twists and turns impressively without ever stopping. Hannah nods and nods, her forehead pressing hard against Castiel’s cheek. Castiel holds them back as much as he is able, with wings and arms both, and he fists his hand in the shirt Balthazar wears, which is Castiel’s. Their touch restores him, their grace pulsing through Castiel in search of injury.

 

“You want to spend your first minutes of freedom insulting me?” Castiel asks.

 

“Yes,” both of them answer, overlapping rather than in unison.

 

“What did I explicitly tell you not to do?” Hannah asks, wedged tight against Castiel within the firm band of Balthazar’s wings. She wears Castiel’s belt, and the hilt of the blade tucked through it presses against his abdomen.

 

“Technically,” Castiel begins.

 

“No,” both of them say, this time very much in unison.

 

“I didn’t ruin it just for one human,” Castiel continues, ignoring the swat Balthazar levels at the back of his head.

 

“You were dead,” Hannah says, which seems to Castiel a non-sequitur.

 

“Tell me you at least fucked him before you died,” Balthazar says, which is slightly more expected. When Castiel doesn’t immediately answer, Balthazar answers for him. “No, of course you didn’t, you bloody died a virgin, didn’t you? My own brother died a virgin,” he says, and then none of them are talking, only holding tight.

 

Castiel tries to ignore the press of the blade Hannah carried in her hands, not within her arm, but he has never been very good at ignoring what is important.

 

He pulls back, and the ash burnt into their clothes comes with him. He pulls back to look, and Hannah lets him, meeting his gaze squarely. Balthazar looks away. They stand with their wings touching, pressed edge to edge in too small a circle. Stark across their bodies and lingering in their feathers, darkening his gold and her bronze, is the ash.

 

Uriel’s ash. His wings. The shapes of his feathers are still clear on Hannah’s shirt, more smudged on Balthazar’s, and Castiel looks down at himself to see how much has transferred. He touches. It is soft and fine, cool to the touch. It doesn’t itch or burn or grate. It feels like emptiness.

 

Wordlessly, Hannah pulls the blade from the belt she wears. Balthazar won’t look at that either. There is enough of everything else to look at—real plants and solid earth, their people wheeling above and Raphael meeting with Dean’s family across the field—but Balthazar’s eyes focus on none of it.

 

“Maybe you could take it,” Hannah says, as if there’s any hope of the blade allowing Castiel to hold it within his grace. In her voice, there is that hope, and she looks at him as she always does, with faith and trust and concern.

 

Castiel reaches, and in the hilt, there is his brother. He curls his fingers around the remains of Uriel’s grace, and Uriel’s grace does not curl back around his. He presses the hilt to his forearm, not willing to risk the blade on his skin, and he cannot force it inside.

 

Hannah’s wings droop. Already without a hope to be shattered, Balthazar’s do not.

 

“I’ll carry it,” Castiel says. Hannah already has her arms full with Anna’s, and Balthazar’s response to loss is outward flippancy, not keepsakes.

 

“We can find somewhere to put it,” Balthazar says, immediately living up to that prediction.

 

“I’ll need a blade while Dean carries mine,” Castiel explains, and Balthazar’s wings jerk against his and Hannah’s.

 

“He has your blade, and yet you have not fucked this man?” Balthazar questions. “ _How_?”

 

“Consummation laws,” Castiel answers, because those are easier to explain than tentatively rebuilt trust. “Also, by human standards, we’re not married yet.”

 

Hannah shoves her wing under Balthazar’s, physically edging him out of the conversation. She flicks her arm down, another blade falling neatly from her sleeve to her hand, and she passes this one to Castiel, blade-first.

 

“Take this instead,” she says, eyes and voice brooking no question.

 

Castiel holds out his hand. Hannah touches the tip to his palm. He relaxes his muscles and closes his eyes, and Anna’s grace sinks through his flesh with ease. Once it’s fully inside him, he feels... strange. Awake. Aware. There is a longing in his chest that feels like the rustle of her wings, and when he touches the trace of it in his sternum, Hannah nods, mimicking the gesture.

 

He looks down at Uriel’s blade in his other hand, and he begins to understand the thin, warded box that held Michael’s blade.

 

“You’ll be getting yours back, of course,” Balthazar says, checking, the words almost a question. “That human of yours can’t actually die and take it with him.”

 

“I’ll be getting it back,” Castiel answers, the thought a heavy weight inside his bones.

 

Hannah presses Balthazar’s wing back harder. Balthazar tries to snap in under hers, and it’s exactly the kind of physical bickering that shows their age, this brief yet endless nudging. Castiel slides Uriel’s blade through his belt—Hannah’s belt, returned to Castiel by Dean, the damage from the lake partially restored by Castiel’s grace. He keeps touching the hilt, and the surface is chilly and removed every time.

 

“I’ll be stationed at Winchester Castle for the duration of the term,” Castiel says, looking down at Uriel’s blade. “The full six hundred fifty years. I understand no one else is expected to do more than a single fifty year shift.”

 

Hannah looks at him with a stubbornness he’d feared he wouldn’t see. He’d expected it of her, but he’d expected many things of Uriel as well. “We’ll be with you for the duration,” she says.

 

“Excuse you,” Balthazar says. “ _You’ll_ be with him. I’ll be there until something more interesting comes around.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says to them both.

 

“Someone has to make sure you stop getting yourself killed,” Balthazar says, as if it doesn’t matter either way.

 

“Only the once,” Castiel says, but both of them interrupt him, Hannah with “Twice” and Balthazar with “Alistair.”

 

Castiel flares in an agitation display he doesn’t really mean. Balthazar just laughs, and Hannah ignores the motion entirely.

 

“I’m glad you’re well,” Hannah says, sincere enough that Balthazar looks away again.

 

“I’m glad you’re well,” Castiel echoes, his eyes involuntarily tracing the smudged lines of Uriel’s feathers across her shirt and wings. She touches her wing to his once more, and they press hard, feathers overlapping.

 

“Tell me you knew what you were doing,” Balthazar interrupts. “Recalling your blade only partially, that was a plan, not you being too slow at following protocol.”

 

Castiel knows what his brother wants him to say.

 

He says it. “Of course I knew what I was doing.”

 

Balthazar looks at him and his eyes press harder than Hannah’s wing. He sighs, drooping in dramatic despair. “How did any of those humans believe your lies?”

 

Castiel checks with Hannah for support, but she looks back with equal curiosity on the subject.

 

“Cultural differences,” Castiel supposes.

 

He pulls his wings in to look back over his shoulder, across the field. Raphael stands upon the rug the humans had laid out across the dirt, somehow innately understanding the insult of asking Raphael to set foot directly upon soil. Incredibly, a fight hasn’t broken out, despite the concessions, despite Castiel’s fully sanctioned deceit, or King John wearing Michael’s blade, or King John himself.

 

There’s no telling if Dean is looking back. With another archangel so close to Prince Sam, it’s doubtful Dean will take his eyes off the threat for an instant. But it is suddenly—no, not suddenly—it is increasingly important Dean meet his siblings, and meet them now. Prince Sam as well, if he and Castiel are indeed to become brothers.

 

“I’ve had a thought,” Castiel says the moment he’s had it.

 

“No, you’re not allowed to do that anymore,” Balthazar tells him without even the courtesy of pausing to consider.

 

“What’s the thought?” Hannah asks, and Castiel tells her, and her alone. If Balthazar listens in, that’s entirely his problem. Castiel is sure to reassure her, to say that it will only be for fifty years or so, but Hannah simply shakes her head and says, “If you think it will help.”

 

“We have to put it somewhere,” Balthazar adds, sounding as if he doesn’t care in the slightest.

 

“There might be better places,” Castiel says, more than willing to indulge the one brother he has left.

 

“I’ll have fifty years to think of one,” Balthazar says, which might mean it’s all right.

 

Castiel nods his thanks, Balthazar ignores this, and Hannah says, “We should do it after Raphael takes flight, but before the humans disperse.”

 

“Once he leaves, you’re to follow him into battle,” Castiel says, a piece of protest aimed at too many targets. He must remain behind himself, too busy acting as the glue binding the treaty together, useful only in his symbolism. “Shouldn’t we-”

 

“The more you stay out of Raphael’s sight, the better,” Balthazar says, as if Castiel couldn’t have determined this himself.

 

“We’ll fly fast to catch up,” Hannah adds, as if Raphael won’t want them in the vanguard against the assembled demons, a battlefield test to prove their loyalty.

 

“It can wait,” Castiel tells them. “We- our family doesn’t need to be so public.”

 

Balthazar shrugs, a long, fluttering motion. “I don’t mind a little show,” he understates.

 

“I do,” Hannah says, and that decides it. They will wait until after the battle. They will wait until Hannah and Balthazar return from the battle, intact and alive.

 

They wait and they watch Raphael speak with the royal humans. Rather, Castiel watches. His siblings at last take a moment to focus on the longed-for world around them, faces upturned to the sun, wings spread to catch warmth and wind both. Even while they bask, they never completely sever contact with Castiel, which is fortunate. He can’t bring himself to fully let go either.

 

When Raphael takes to the sky, the angels overhead immediately wheel after him. Hannah and Balthazar remain a moment longer, a minute longer. Balthazar still wears Castiel’s shirt, Hannah his belt, but Castiel has nothing of Balthazar’s. They are about to head into battle, and Castiel has nothing of his brother’s—his only brother.

 

“Give me your boots,” Balthazar says. “I don’t want to ruin mine.”

 

Leaning on Hannah for balance, they swap their boots. The exchange complete, they keep holding on. Balthazar grabs Castiel’s shoulder to complete the circle.

 

“We need to go,” Hannah says, standing still.

 

“When you return,” Castiel tells them, “meet me by the hedge maze near the castle.” It’s as good a meeting place as any.

 

“As soon as we can,” Hannah promises. Eyes serious, Balthazar nods.

 

They take to the sky, leaving him behind.

  
  


An anxious morning and nerve-wracking early afternoon stretch into the mother of all tense evenings. They ride back to the castle while a foreign army fights their battle for them, on their soil, against the archangel who’d attacked his brother and their future king. Sam hobbles his way up to the library with a relieved Jess helping him on the stairs, and Dean opens the warded balcony doors of the library to let Cas in. Jo sticks around, an unofficial guard against Cas that their father insists on.

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon in there, Sam and Jess tag-teaming a history lesson for Cas. Dean and Jo interrupt with the versions of events they’ve heard out in the countryside, and Cas listens to them all, his wings hunched around the back of his chair. They sit at the table closest to the open balcony doors. The books laid before them try to blow shut, but it’s worth it for every time Cas’ eyes fall to half mast, his wings spreading, just a little. There’s a gray smudge on his shirt he keeps touching, and each time he does, it undoes his joy. In front of him, an angel blade lies on the table, unsheathed and untouched. Cas refuses to comment on either smudge or blade. Jo stands guard at the balcony doors, not the library door, ready to slam the warding into place at the first sign of movement from outside.

 

Dean tries not to pace, which means he is pacing constantly. He prowls a circuit around the room, orbiting his siblings and fiance. He pretends to check books for their titles, for their relevancy to history or law or anything else Cas needs to know, but he’s not looking.

 

“Dean, would you stop rubbing it in?” Sam calls from the table as Dean starts another circle. “You can walk, I get it. Sit down.”

 

Sighing, he stalks back to the table. Without looking up from the passage Jess is pointing out to him, Cas stretches out a wing, reaching for him. Rather than let himself be pulled in, Dean starts fussing over Cas’ feathers, messing them up and smoothing them down, just to see how far he’s allowed to go.

 

Jess keeps talking about the passage for half a minute longer before she laughs. Sam looks amused, but Cas doesn’t seem to notice, too busy listing to the side, toward Dean. The feathers around his shoulders are all fluffed up, so Dean pulls instead of preens, a hard tug of the hand. Cas’ head snaps up, but he doesn’t pull his wing away or push Dean back, or give Dean a single thing to fight against. Instead, in the quiet volume that passes for his tone of embarrassment, Cas looks up at him with dark eyes and says, “Dean, I don’t think you want to do that in front of your family.”

 

Dean pulls his hands away while Sam chokes on a laugh. He can’t sit, too restless, too aware of a battle that is rightfully his. He goes back to pacing.

 

“Dean, seriously,” Sam says.

 

“I could help,” Cas says, and no.

 

“No,” Dean orders, rounding on him, a talentless human against an angel. “You’re staying right there. If I can’t go, you can’t either.”

 

Cas and Jess stare at Dean together from across the table. From the balcony doors, Jo looks at him with understanding, but it’s Sam—Sam, of all people—who, twisted around in his chair, nods at him with complete empathy and not one shred of sympathy.

 

“Welcome to my entire life,” Sam says flatly. “Now, if you’re done running around in circles, can we do something actually productive right now?”

 

No. Dean needs to fight something, anything, right now, and if Sam is offering himself up as a target, so be it.

 

He opens his mouth with no idea what he’s going to say, only that it’s going to be awful, and then Cas makes this really fucking weird noise. It’s like there’s something trapped inside his neck and he never learned how to cough.

 

Everybody looks at him.

 

Cas stares back at them in rotation until Sam clears his throat. Cas mimics this slightly better, nodding.

 

“You... wanted to say something?” Jess prompts.

 

“Yes,” Cas says. “When I said I could help, I meant with Sam’s leg.”

 

“No,” Dean says, unthinking, reflexive.

 

“I’m fully recovered,” Cas continues as if Dean hadn’t made a sound. “Hannah and Balthazar restored me, earlier. I would be able to heal Sam without taking more than the energy required for the healing.”

 

“No,” Dean says again, pointing at him, just as Sam says, “Please.”

 

“Can no one actually hear me right now?” Dean asks.

 

“Yes, but I outrank you,” Sam says. “Plus, people are already wondering why our personal angel with the miraculous healing powers hasn’t fixed my leg. He basically brought Mom and Dad back to life, and everyone at the Royal Hospital knows the kind of touch healing Lucifer pulled off. If Cas is back up to snuff, we really should get my leg fixed.”

 

While he speaks, Sam starts unbuttoning his shirt, going for the warded undershirt beneath.

 

“Jess,” Dean says, because come on.

 

“I trust Sam to know his own limits,” Jess says, and not just in the dutiful wife way Mary talks about King John.

 

“If you’re that against it,” Cas begins.

 

“I know you wouldn’t hurt him on purpose,” Dean hastens to say.

 

“Then I won’t,” Cas concludes.

 

“I would like my leg to not be broken anymore, please,” Sam says, and he at least looks to Dean this time. When he frames it like that, it even sounds reasonable. Human mages can only do so much, because breath healing can only go so deep. All _human_ healing techniques can only go so deep.

 

Slowly, gradually, Dean forces his hands to unclench. “How fast can you do it?” he makes himself ask. “Mom and Dad, that was some pretty sustained contact you had to go with.”

 

“I’d be as quick as I could be,” Cas promises, which reassures only about intentions, not results.

 

“Practice first,” Dean tells him, rounding the table as Sam pulls off his undershirt to sit barechested. “Smallest area of contact possible, as fast as you can.”

 

Cas asks, “Is there another human with-”

 

Dean draws his blade, Cas’ blade, and slices his left palm. It’s so sharp, he doesn’t even feel the sting, but when he holds out his hand, his palm is dry and unbloodied.

 

Seated next to Cas, Jess stares. Standing to lean over the table, Sam stares. Jo cranes from her spot by the doors.

 

Cas looks up at him steadily, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as his feathers slowly fluff. But the tilt of his head seems... shy.

 

Looking down at his hand, Dean slides the blade’s edge against his palm a second time. It’s sharp, a danger he can feel, and yet his skin doesn’t part beneath it. He presses in harder, and though there is pain from the edge and the pressure, there still isn’t a cut.

 

Frowning, Dean plucks a long blond hair off Jess’ sleeve. It splits down the middle nice and easy, peeling apart like two pages in a book. It takes Dean a second to take a single hair off the top of his head and pluck it one-handed, but he does, and that short strand of hair won’t cut for anything.

 

Cas’ eyes are no longer crinkled. His feathers are back to an angle Dean is beginning to think of as his resting face. Cas says nothing, watching Dean make these little, monumental discoveries.

 

“Your blade won’t cut me,” Dean says.

 

“Never,” Cas promises, more matter-of-fact than earnest, as if it’s something he doesn’t need to prove.

 

“I, uh,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know what else to add. The hilt is cool in his hand.

 

“If you want me to practice before I heal Sam, we could visit a hospital,” Cas continues, speaking with ease. “It could be beneficial to morale and my public image.”

 

“We’d need to make arrangements for that,” Sam says. At some point, he’d pulled his shirt back on, though he’s yet to button it. “Just heal me today, it’s all right.”

 

“Dean?” Cas asks. He takes Dean’s hand, the one that should be bleeding. Cas’ fingers are warm and large and dry. He does not sweat, not even as the weather outside pretends it’s already June. He is ancient and inhuman, and he is looking up at Dean with deference and more, as if his original plan had never been to leave forever, to leave Dean holding a sack of shit and blame.

 

“Yeah, fine,” Dean says, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Cas uses that grip to pull himself to his feet, and Dean sways toward him more than he wants to admit. It’s the wings: Cas has a lot of mass to counter against.

 

Cas moves to Sam’s side of the table. He reaches with two fingers before pausing, hand inches from Sam’s upturned face. Then Cas folds one finger in and touches Sam’s temple, slower than a tap, more gentle than a poke. Sam’s eyes shoot wide, but he doesn’t jerk away. Dean’s hand clenches around the blade’s hilt. He doesn’t reach for the other blade, the one on the table, but he knows he could.

 

Then Cas withdraws his hand, his arm. Cas pulls back entirely and Sam smiles up at him, saying, “Thank you.”

 

“Of course,” Cas answers, and when he looks at Dean, Dean tries to relax.

 

“Dean, can you cut the cast off me?” Sam asks. “It’s itching like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

“Yeah, fine,” Dean says again, and it’s easy with the blade still in his hand. His steady, steady hand, as he cuts off his little brother’s cast. Plaster and bandage and splint part like butter, effortlessly, and Dean nicks Sam’s pale, hairy leg halfway down the shin. Sam doesn’t hiss or wince, only sighs in relief. The scratch is a thin, red line, too narrow for blood to immediately well, and Dean forces his eyes away from it.

 

“There,” he says when he’s done. He sheathes the blade and pats Sam on his knee, on his rolled up pants leg. “There,” he says again, and he stands.

 

“Thanks,” Sam says, and Dean says, “Yeah.”

 

Sam rolls down his pant leg and hesitates before putting his undershirt back on. Already sitting back beside Jess, Cas nods his approval.

 

“We were discussing precedents in foreign policy,” Cas reminds Sam, and Dean dies a little inside.

 

“Time for a break,” Dean says. “Or something else. Mostly, just something else.” Something that will actually _distract_ him. He has no idea how Cas is holding it together, trapped here with his siblings out there.

 

“Dean’s right,” Sam says, giving in way too easily. He grins wide. “We really do need to be planning your wedding.”

 

“No,” Dean says, just as Cas asks, “What would that entail?”

 

“Well, we’ve been looking at locations that aren’t covered in warding,” Sam says, completely ignoring Dean. “We might want to consider heading back to that field. Decent space, really good symbolism. We don’t need to worry about rain with Mom scrying. Outdoor wedding, outdoor reception. And I know Dean’ll love making everyone use latrines.”

 

Breaking the silence typically required of a guard on duty, Jo snorts. Beside Cas, Jess doesn’t look too happy about the idea, which, yeah. Is totally why Dean finds the whole thing so funny. Some people have never dug a hole for their own shit in the woods.

 

Cas has more questions, and Sam has more answers. Jess contributes with examples from hers and Sam’s wedding, and Dean pretends not to have any preferences, because it’s not like any of his are going to get catered to anyway, not when the whole thing is a diplomatic affair. Plus, it’s gotta be rushed through, to cement things.

 

“Were the marriage wreaths adapted from fae customs?” Cas asks, and Sam nods along.

 

“It carried over from Moondoor. They’ve been the cultural trend setters for a while,” Sam explains. “Once Charlie’s done with the state dinner downstairs, she’d probably be thrilled to give you an overview.”

 

Cas frowns. “Shouldn’t you be there?” The way he glances between Sam and Dean, includes Dean in that question. It’s almost sweet, how hilariously ill-informed that is.

 

“Heads of state and spouses only,” Sam says. “We’ll be calling up for food, tonight.”

 

“Are there colors we should use for the ribbons?” Jess asks, getting them back on topic.

 

“For the marriage wreath?” Cas asks, as if that’s something that needs clarifying. Although, maybe it is.

 

“Were you going to do that ribbon thing with your wings again?” Dean asks.

 

Cas looks at him, just this edge of sharply, and he pauses slightly too long before he says, “I was considering it.”

 

“So that’s a ‘yes,’” Dean says for him.

 

“What ribbon thing?” Sam asks.

 

Cas stares at Dean with a blank face and completely motionless wings, and Dean has no mercy for him.

 

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says. “What’s with the ribbon thing? When we were pen-palling around with your family, Balthazar said he’d done me a favor, dressing you up like that. What gives?”

 

After another much too long pause, Cas answers, “Balthazar has an obnoxious sense of humor.”

 

Grinning fit to split his face, Dean comes back around to Cas and Jess’s side of the table. “Yeah, but what does it _mean_?”

 

Cas is completely still, which translates into absolute inward squirming. Whatever it is, it’s fucking embarrassing, and Dean is giddy with this piece of politically viable revenge.

 

“You wanna tell me before Balthazar does?” Dean asks.

 

Cas narrows his eyes. “The customs of the masquerade dictated that my appearance escalate each night. It was what we had left.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Sure. So, y’know, if you _weren’t_ doing it for solely practical reasons, what would it mean?”

 

Hand over her mouth, Jess unsuccessfully fights down a giggle. Dean looks to her, and she asks Cas, “Is that your version of a marriage wreath?”

 

Cas says nothing.

 

Cas says nothing for what feels like a very long time, all while blood goes rushing past Dean’s ears in an abrupt yet muted roar.

 

“Balthazar has an obnoxious sense of humor,” Cas repeats.

 

“Wow,” Sam says with a laugh. Catching himself, he clears his throat and schools his expression, but, well: wow.

 

“It was a costume,” Cas says, and it is fucking appalling, how Dean didn’t catch such an awful liar from the very start.

 

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, mocking out of instinct rather than any conscious control over his mouth or body. “Sure.”

 

“I think it’s sweet,” Jess says, reaching out to put her hand over Cas’.

 

“I think Dean doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” Jo chimes in from the balcony doors, yet again speaking out of turn.

 

“You’re a shitty guard,” Dean tells her.

 

“Don’t train a squire properly, you get what you get,” she counters with a shrug. Which is awful for a lot of reasons, but mostly because that’s the same glib line Dean still shoots Bobby from time to time. Dean has, in fact, trained her too well.

 

“Shut up,” Dean says, and Cas is looking at him with crinkled eyes.

 

“So,” Sam says, stressing and stretching the syllable, “should the ribbons for your wings match the ones on your wreath?”

 

“Blue is for bonding,” Cas agrees with a nod, still looking at Dean. No matter how many times Dean looks away and looks back, Cas is unchanged, steady and waiting.

 

“What was the ceremony like the last time this happened?” Jess asks. “Are there precedents we should be honoring?”

 

“The last time what happened?” Cas asks, finally dropping his gaze from Dean to Jess.

 

“A human and an angel marrying,” Jess says, and Cas shakes his head.

 

“As far as I know, it hasn’t,” Cas says. “In angelic terms, it physically can’t. Not unless Dean can learn to craft his life force outside of his body, and absorb mine.” He hesitates just barely before adding, “By the standards of my people, we’re already as married as we can be.” And he looks back up at Dean, at once certain and tentative.

 

Dean’s gonna kiss his fucking face off.

 

Later.

 

For now, Dean clears his throat and turns his head. His hand is back on the hilt of the blade, and he should probably sit down, but Jess makes a good barrier between them.

 

“If there’s no precedent, we just gotta make it up as we go,” Dean says. “Sam, give him the rundown.”

 

Sam details the ceremony, knowing most of the words verbatim. He gets as far as the vouching bit before he has to go and ruin everything. “There’s two ways for your honor guard to vouch,” Sam explains. Jess and I are technically a political match, so traditionally, we should have had our honor guards vouch our loyalty, not our love. But.” He looks across the table at Jess, and they might as well be holding hands and cooing, it’s so saccharine. “So, Cas, you’re going to need someone to vouch for you. Hannah or Balthazar?”

 

“For which?” Cas asks. He looks back up at Dean. “For loyalty?” And he doesn’t even say the other word, doesn’t even need to.

 

Dean’s tongue sticks behind his teeth.

 

“Dean can decide,” Cas tells Sam. “Hannah for loyalty. Otherwise, Balthazar.”

 

Sam looks at Dean, and Dean doesn’t decide. “Just run him through the rest,” Dean tells Sam. “I’ll see about getting some dinner sent up.”

 

“Just pull the bell,” Jess says, because she doesn’t actually know Dean all that well yet.

 

“No, I’ve got it,” Dean says, and flees. Retreats. Whichever. He’s down and back up, then detouring to grab Sam his regular shoes and a sock for his previously cast-encased leg. Sam’s in one of the joined marriage suites now, his childhood room hollow and empty, awaiting his own children. Dean knows, because he tried the old rooms first. Then Dean stops by his own rooms and wonders at the furniture.

 

He leaves the warding on the hallway door but smudges it on all the windows. He pulls his desk away from the window, hauling it to the side with a great scraping of legs and clattering of drawers. He opens the window, swinging it out, and the hinges cry. He feels around, but there’s no hint of a latch on the other side, and he adds that to the list, right after some grease for the hinges.

 

Except maybe he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t make these kinds of plans. Maybe he’ll have to move out, to live with Cas in a place with less warding. Maybe... Maybe there are still too many _maybes_.

 

He looks at the bed and the desk chair and the armchair and the fireplace. He looks at all of it with a sense of unreality. His room. His great-uncle’s room, his great-great-aunt’s room; a space he rents from his family with the weight of his sword.

 

Then he picks back up Sam’s shoes and sock. He heads down to the library. No food awaits him yet, but Sam is standing, unsupported, and laughing as he and Jess try to teach Cas and Jo the dance steps that Sam’s broken leg had prevented him from doing at their wedding. He’s going about it entirely barefoot. The last of the day’s sunlight trickles in through the open balcony doors, framing them all in faint gold. The light gilds them, painting over the tension lurking beneath each motion, as if this moment is one of celebration, not distraction. Cas’ wings gleam and flex as he moves, a creature of many kinds of grace, yet again learning to dance in a library, and Dean’s throat closes.

 

“Sammy,” Dean calls, and he brings his brother his footwear.

 

Sam thanks him, eyes knowing, cheeks flushed. Jo resumes her post at the balcony doors with a bow and a flourish, pointing Dean back to Cas, and Cas holds out his hands. Cas stretches out his arms and his wings arch forward, ready to funnel Dean down to his body.

 

“We should commission a new dance,” Dean decides, already walking forward. “Sam and Jess got a new one. So should we.”

 

Cas takes his hands and draws him close, wings closing around Dean’s back. The moment Dean touches him is the moment Dean realizes the full extent of Cas’ tension, his fears. Despite his smooth appearance, he’s a taut bowstring, drawn and aching to fire.

 

“I’d still like to practice this one,” Cas says, begging for a distraction, which is of course when a knock sounds at the library doors.

 

“Come in!” Sam calls, the asshole, grinning at the looks the maid gives them. Except, no, she’s not a maid. She’s a runner. The general lack of trays and food is the first hint.

 

She bows deeply before relaying the news. “Your Highness, two angels have landed by the hedge maze. They come with tidings of victory and request the presence of their brother, Seraph Castiel.”

 

Cas immediately turns to Sam. His wings withdraw from Dean, but he only drops one of Dean’s hands. The hand that holds, holds tight. _Victory_. “Am I permitted to bring them to the courtyard?”

 

“They have to report in somewhere,” Sam replies.

 

“Then I humbly request your presence there as well,” Cas says. His thumb sweeps over Dean’s. “All of you. We…” His eyes flick to the balcony doors and back to Sam. “We have a gift.”

 

“Tell the king I’m receiving the angels in the courtyard,” Sam instructs the runner. “That will be all.”

 

“Yes, Your Highness,” she says, and departs after another deep bow.

 

“It’s done?” Dean asks Cas. “Just like that?”

 

“Even if Lucifer had awoken before our forces arrived, his condition compared to Raphael’s would be extremely poor,” Cas answers, releasing Dean’s hand to take up the angel blade he’d left on the table. He tucks it back through his belt instead of absorbing it into his arm. The motion is overly careful, foreign and somehow sad. “I imagine the rest of our forces are taking care of the demons that were protecting him.”

 

“That was the battle plan,” Dean agrees, because it’s not like Cas is saying anything Dean doesn’t already know. It still feels wrong, unreal. Is this why all the pomp and circumstance after a war? To convince the generals away from the battlefields that the fight really had happened? With no bruises on his skin or blood on his sword, Dean’s body is still waiting for the fight to begin. “But that’s... that’s it?”

 

“Pretty much,” Sam answers for Cas. “You send your people out, they succeed or fail, and you decide how much of their report to believe when they get back.” And he shrugs, like that’s just a fact of life. “Cas, we’ll meet you outside. I look forward to meeting your siblings.”

 

Cas pauses beside the balcony doors, beside Jo who holds them open wide for him. “Please forgive any... culture clash,” he says in the voice of a man doomed to embarrassment. “Balthazar still favors the old style of pronunciation and-”

 

“Just go get ’em, Cas,” Dean says.

 

Cas nods and ducks out. He hops the balcony railing like a fence in a field before taking to the air. Jo closes the doors behind him and they all head down, Sam with an almost obnoxious spring in his repaired step as he leaves his cane behind. Somehow, Bobby’s already present downstairs, a placeholder for King John until he can disentangle himself from the state dinner. When they enter the courtyard, they keep close to the doors, large and warded and shut behind them. No one’s actually sure how much space three angels need in order to land. They turn all the magelights on, illuminating the outer square and inner flower-framed circle of the courtyard.

 

They don’t have long to wait. Cas comes down first in a swoop that has Dean fearing for his head, but Cas pulls up so sharply, both his belt and toes must skim the ground. He comes back down on his feet in a little wing-assisted hop. Another angelic man—presumably Balthazar—arrives much the same way, but Hannah comes down feet first in a manner reminiscent of Raphael. She shoots her brothers a look that wouldn’t be much on a human, but in Cas speak, it translates to _Stop showing off, you two_.

 

The resemblance between Cas and Hannah is clear in their hair and features. The resemblance between Hannah and Balthazar is clear in their wings. Between Cas and Balthazar, it’s just the eyes. Even their postures are entirely different. They all have a smudge of gray across their shirts, larger and darker on Balthazar’s than on Cas’. On Hannah, the smudge has a repeating pattern, and that shape is the shape of feathers. With a sickening lurch, Dean remembers the contents of their letters, their request to leave the ashes of Cas’ wings where they fell. It seems impossible that the ash wouldn’t have blown away by now, but then again, what does Dean know about magical angel death ash?

 

Sam steps forward, Jess at his right hand, Dean at his left. They meet in this formation, Cas in the center, his siblings flanking him. Despite being slightly shorter, Balthazar stares Dean down with an unimpressed look. Then his eyes flick down to Cas’ sword at Dean’s waist, and his feathers move in a way that definitely doesn’t mean joy.

 

“I bid you welcome to our home and castle,” Sam greets with formality that would do Mary proud. He does a round of introductions, a special relish in his voice when he introduces Jess as “my wife, Princess Jessica.”

 

As stiff as the night they first met, Cas introduces his siblings in turn. There’s a slight moment of awkwardness—increased awkwardness—when Cas should be finished but adds “And…” while looking back over his shoulder at someone who isn’t there.

 

“And I see you’ve warded the door,” Balthazar says, expression bland, voice falsely bright. At least, this is what Dean assumes he says. His pronunciation is bizarre.

 

“A wise precaution against Lucifer,” Hannah allows with a nod, speaking normally. “One I am glad to say is no longer called for, Your Highness.”

 

“It’s no insult against you,” Sam promises. “The attack led to some alarm. I’m sure we’ll be able to take the warding down as we better establish trust between our peoples.”

 

As falsely casual as Dean’s ever seen anyone, Balthazar asks, “And the warding on yourself, Vessel Prince?”

 

Sam doesn’t tense. Jess does. Cas does. Hannah looks at Balthazar sharply, more accusation than surprise. Dean’s more or less constantly tense, but he counts too. Even without turning around, he can feel Bobby and Jo stand straighter, perhaps readying themselves for a cut palm and a quickly drawn banishing sigil.

 

Sam, though.

 

Sam fucking _smiles_.

 

“A piece of caution your brother advised,” Sam replies. “His concern for my well-being is a deeply appreciated kindness.”

 

“One he’d merely forgotten to mention, I’m sure,” Balthazar says, giving Cas a look. “Too busy telling us how handsome your brother is, isn’t that right? I’m _certain_ Raphael will believe that.”

 

“Maybe he will,” Dean says, speaking for the first time. He draws Cas’ sword and wraps his other hand around the blade itself. He squeezes hard and pulls, then shows his bloodless palm.

 

Hannah and Balthazar stare. Their wings, previously swaying with their breath and the air, go still, as motionless as Cas’ wings are naturally. The tilt of his head shy, Cas looks back to Hannah first and steadfastly refuses to look at Balthazar.

 

Slowly, Balthazar thumps his left wing against Cas’ back. “How silly of me,” Balthazar says. “Clearly, Castiel had no reason to know Your Highness is a vessel until Lucifer attacked you.”

 

“That’s right,” Sam agrees. “In fact, you’re the first angel who’s openly acknowledged my talent. Isn’t that right, Dean?”

 

“I’ll be sure to tell Dad,” Dean says. “He does like to be told when other people discover state secrets.”

 

“That would be best,” Hannah says. “If Raphael thought Castiel had hidden something of that nature from him, Castiel might face something worse than six and a half centuries of exile.”

 

“Exile?” Dean repeats, and it’s fitting there’s already a blade in his hand.

 

“An example,” Hannah says with a quick look to Cas. “Clearly, it is our honor to serve as emissaries, and no punishment to be kept from our home.”

 

Cas pushes his wings against theirs. “I would remain in any case,” he says, and he says this to Dean.

 

“I know,” Dean says, knowing otherwise, and he sheathes Cas’ blade.

 

They look at each other. He can feel everyone watching them look at each other, and he still doesn’t look away.

 

He can’t.

 

Cas’ eyes won’t let him.

 

“I would,” Cas repeats.

 

Balthazar thumps him on the back again, breaking the moment. “The pining was getting ridiculous,” he says, clearly intending to embarrass. “Can’t say how glad I am you finally took the hint.”

 

“I liked the ribbons so much, I had to propose,” Dean says. Cas glances to the side, to the spot they’d stood with the music playing and the world about to fall apart, and yet when Cas looks back to Dean, Dean finds himself smiling.

 

Hannah nudges Cas with both hand and wing, stopping the resulting staring contest. She asks Cas something in a language Dean doesn’t understand, and then they both look to Balthazar. Balthazar responds with a shrug, one that continues all the way down his wings. There’s an exchange of small nods.

 

“Sam,” Cas says, and he pulls the blade from his belt. He holds it with both hands, blade and hilt across each of his palms. He cups it like a precious thing even as Balthazar looks away from it entirely. “You told me that, by human tradition, you and I will become brothers after I marry Dean. Is that correct?”

 

“It is,” Sam confirms, voice soft, eyes on the blade. “Is that...?”

 

“This is our brother’s blade,” Cas tells him. “Among angels, there is no tradition of bonding families through marriage. A sibling’s spouse does not share our light, and thus is not a sibling. So we’re... making it up as we go.” He steps forward, Hannah watching intently, Balthazar looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s in his eyes, the shift of his wings, the hand pressed to the smudge of ashes across his chest.

 

“This is our brother’s blade,” Cas repeats. He holds it out, hilt-first—not to Sam, not with the warding, but to Dean. “Through Dean, you are our brother.”

 

Understanding, Dean takes the blade and hands it in turn to Sam. Eyes wide and abruptly young, Sam accepts it with gloved hands. He holds the hilt and looks down at the blade, blinking strongly.

 

“This doesn’t have any legal standing, right?” Dean has to ask. “Raphael isn’t suddenly going to claim this makes Sam qualify as his subject.”

 

“No,” Cas tells him. “Like you, it is informal but heartfelt.”

 

“Thank you,” Sam says. “Thank all of you.”

 

“Perhaps after you pass, it will be a better memento,” Hannah says. “We do expect it back.”

 

“Of course,” Sam says, and he slides the blade though his belt with the utmost of care. He looks at Cas as if he might hug him, and so Jess steps forward to do it on his behalf.

 

“I don’t have one for you,” Cas tells her, hugging her back with just his arms. “I need to carry Anna’s while Dean has mine.”

 

“I wouldn’t know how to use it anyway,” Jess assures him. She kisses his cheek before pulling back. “Besides, two people marrying into the same family don’t count as siblings.”

 

“This seems overly complicated,” Cas says, and both Sam and Jess laugh. Hannah and Balthazar simply seem to be in agreement.

 

It’s a good note, a safe place for King John to enter with Mary and various heads of state in tow. For once, the timing actually works out, and this is what happens. Charlie stares at all three angels with barely contained glee, to the point where Dean nearly tells her these aren’t the three she’ll get to take back to Moondoor. King John notices Sam’s new sword right away but seems to wordlessly accept it as Sam’s due. Cas reaches over with his wing, and this is how Dean winds up against his side, not quite holding hands.

 

It all turns very formal, very fast. Hannah goes stiff, like Cas, but Balthazar turns on the charm. Which is to say, the smarm. With the out-of-date pronunciation, it weirdly works. All Dean can do is stand there and listen to speeches of victory with Cas’ wing draped around his shoulders.

 

What feels like a very long time later, Dean finally gets dinner, eating standing in the courtyard, while Charlie interrogates Cas about his relationship with Dean. Cas fumbles his way through it, but most of the awkwardness can thankfully be blamed on Balthazar’s continued needling. It’s a weird night. Almost a nice night. A prelude to the rest of his life.

 

That little meet and greet lasts much too long, turning into an impromptu celebration over their victory over Lucifer. It still doesn’t seem real. Then someone asks Cas, with a pointed look at the ashes smeared across his shirt, if he wouldn’t want to freshen up. When Cas answers that it’s out of respect for the dead, everything becomes abruptly too real.

 

The clock tower tolls eleven, and people start to turn in for the night. Hannah and Balthazar take their leave, planning to fly all the way back to the Kingdom of Heaven to assemble with the other angels who are to be assigned to human nations. Cas hugs them tightly and seems surprised when Dean tells him he can fly back with them. Then Cas hugs Dean as well, a full hug with arms and wings and the firm line of his body. When they pull back, there’s traces of ash on Dean’s jacket, too, but he doesn’t brush it away. Instead, he covers it with his hand, and Cas ducks in to kiss him in front of an entire courtyard of politicians and diplomats. And Sam. And Balthazar. Who should probably never be allowed to be alone together, ever.

 

When Dean goes up to bed, Sam and Jess say goodnight to him at his door. Jess drags Sam away by the hand, saying something that sounds suspiciously like “Your turn to be on top,” and Sam follows her toward their marriage suite with a laugh and a grin.

 

In his bedroom, Dean yanks off his boots and shrugs out of his light jacket. He hangs it up carefully, making sure the ash doesn’t touch anything else. Then he shucks out of nearly everything else, stripping down to his underclothes. As he crosses to the window, the carpet feels strange beneath his bare feet, a luxury his body stopped anticipating years ago.

 

His desk is no longer in place, so he drags his chair over. He opens the window and looks out, feeling the air on his face and arms, feeling something more. For a time, he waits and tries not to think. Before he can second-guess the impulse, he grabs his masquerade mask from his closet, the one from the final night, and he ties the band to the window’s lower hinge.

 

He sits a bit longer, taking in the warm night air, before he dims the lights. He goes to bed, pulling the curtains against the light despite the approaching summer heat.

 

Before he can drift off to even a shallow doze, there’s a knock at his window. He pulls back the bed curtains and swings his legs out, returning his feet to the carpet. Arms folded on the windowsill, Cas follows each motion with wide blue eyes, somehow darker than the night sky behind him.

 

“Hey,” Dean says.

 

“Hello, Dean.” Cas looks away, shifting his weight to fumble one-handed with the mask’s band. He reaches in to set the mask down on Dean’s chair. “Was this an invitation?”

 

“You’re not flying back to Heaven,” Dean says.

 

“Not tonight,” Cas answers after a pause.

 

Dean lifts the mask from his seat before taking its place. “Because you’re exiled.”

 

“Yes,” Cas says, and he rests his chin atop his folded arms on the windowsill. His right wing is wedged in there between his back and the glass of the window. “Though my goals were accomplished, it would be incorrect to say my mission itself succeeded,” he adds, voice soft, eyes low. He looks up at Dean and Dean drags his chair closer.

 

“All that, and you still can’t go home,” Dean says. “I’m sorry, man.”

 

Cas shakes his head. “It was never home after Anna... After Michael killed Anna. Without Uriel... I don’t know.” He’s silent for a moment before asking, “Is that normal? For a home to stop being a home?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, no hesitation. “The roadhouses feel more like home than this place.”

 

“I’d like to go to one, then,” Cas says, and Dean chokes on a laugh.

 

“You’ve been to a couple, buddy,” Dean tells him. “Tried out the beds and everything.”

 

“Oh,” Cas says. He watches Dean fiddle with the band of his mask, just like old times. A month ago, when Cas was human, and not an angel effortlessly holding to the side of a castle for a chat. It’s starting to be a strange thought, the idea of Cas as human, and Dean’s not sure what to do with that realization.

 

“We’ll check out a bunch more,” Dean promises, “once we’re out hunting together. If we time it right, you can even meet Jo’s mom, Ellen. She manages the whole network.”

 

“I think I’d like that,” Cas says. “Dame Joanna—Jo—she said…” He lifts his gaze from Dean’s hands, and it’s incredible, how Cas looking into his eyes makes him more naked than Cas checking out his bare legs or arms. “Did you really hold me the entire way back?”

 

Dean looks down at the mask. He digs his thumb into the base of a silver horn. “Someone had to.”

 

“No,” Cas says. Simply. With conviction. Implacable.

 

“Come inside,” Dean says, and Cas hesitates.

 

“I shouldn’t,” he decides. “You’re supposed to have this window warded still. Someone could hear us.”

 

“I didn’t tell you come to bed, Cas,” Dean says.

 

“But I would take you there,” Cas tells him immediately. “So I’ll stay outside. And when we do go to bed, it will be in a home for both of us.”

 

Dean sets the mask aside. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, until his face is level with Cas’. “You really gotta stop saying shit like this,” Dean replies instead of kissing him.

 

Cas lifts his head from his folded arms. He nudges his chin forward. “No, I don’t. It’s not specified in the treaty.”

 

A puff of laughter pops out of Dean, and Cas’ eyes crinkle.

 

“It’s not specified in the treaty either,” Cas adds. “Where we’re going to live.”

 

“Tired of rooming over the Mews already?” Dean asks.

 

“We should live somewhere with a balcony,” Cas says, as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “I want at least one room large enough for me to stretch my wings, preferably the bedroom. I think Balthazar will want to live separately. I’m not sure about Hannah. What do you want?”

 

“You want to live outside the palatial compound?” Dean asks.

 

Cas nods. “At least until the warding is removed. I understand it will take some time for that trust to build.”

 

“We could get a place in the city,” Dean realizes. If he’s really not tied to the castle, if it’s better he and Cas be elsewhere... “We could get a place in any city we want. And on nights we have to come back for political stuff, we can do this. Provided you can fit through the window.”

 

Cas’ wings fluff, a soft wave of ink against the scattered stars beyond. “I can fit.”

 

“Prove it,” Dean challenges, and Cas pushes up on his hands. He holds himself there, effortless, with a gentle bend in his elbows and no strain in his face. His wings flatten against his back in a way Dean thinks typically means discomfort. Cas doesn’t quite loom over Dean in his chair, and that’s a shame.

 

Dean rises, and Cas follows the motion with the tilt of his jaw. Cas strains higher, arms fully straightening. His eyes may trail after Dean, but his mouth tracks him. Dean leans down, just a little, not enough.

 

Cas glares at him through narrowed eyes.

 

“Is that an angel pout?” Dean teases.

 

Cas’ eyes narrow further.

 

It totally is.

 

Smirking, Dean leans down. He doesn’t just give Cas what he wants, he makes Cas _take it_. Cas may have to keep his weight on both hands, but Dean doesn’t have to. Oh, no. He can thread his fingers through Cas’ hair. He can palm Cas’ cheek, his neck, his shoulders. He can cover Cas’ hands with his own, all while kissing Cas deep and wet and filthy before breaking off with a nip to his lips. Cas chases his mouth, straining halfway through the window after him.

 

“Changed your mind about coming inside, huh?” Dean asks. He licks his lips just to watch Cas stare, and inadvertently rewards himself with another taste.

 

“Dean,” Cas says, and there is a threat in his eyes that Dean would eagerly see fulfilled.

 

“I mean, if you don’t want to kiss me,” Dean begins, only for his mouth to go dry as Cas reaches, but not for Dean.

 

Cas reaches up, fingertips just barely reaching the top of the window frame, and then Cas _lifts_ himself. Without so much as glancing away from Dean, he holds himself aloft with just the one arm, elbow slowly bending to a right angle. The night breeze pulls at his hair, his clothes, his feathers, and Cas doesn’t waver.

 

That’s when Cas reaches for him, his free hand darting out to fist in Dean’s undershirt. He drags Dean against him, to the window, and Dean catches himself on this unshakeable piece of iron that is to be his husband.

 

“Fuck,” Dean swears gently. Not breathlessly. Just quiet. He slides his hands higher, tracing the muscle, if not the impossible strength within it. The solidity of Cas’ chest. The angles of his raised arm. The complete lack of strain in the tendons of his neck.

 

“I do want to kiss you,” Cas says, as if Dean had needed the help guessing.

 

“I got that, thanks.”

 

“You’re very welcome.” And he pulls Dean closer. He binds Dean closer, with lips and breath and a single hand. He pins Dean against him, a hold Dean can’t hope to break, and it’s terrifying in the wrong way, or maybe the right one. If Cas released the window frame, he could drag Dean down to his death in an instant, a mermaid with a sailor. And yet.

 

And yet.

 

Dean bites at Cas’ mouth, and though Cas bites back, he’s gentle, so immensely careful. Dean pushes; Cas shifts. Dean pulls, and Cas surges into him, a wave breaking itself before it can reach the jetty. Dean draws Cas’ hand across his own body, under his shirt, and Cas presses warmth everywhere he is invited.

 

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Cas slides his hand around Dean’s back, to clutch at his shoulder blades, to trace the lines of them again and again. It’s a little bizarre, but then, Dean can’t leave Cas’ wings alone either.

 

From the other side of the castle, the sound easily carried through the night air, the clock tower begins to toll. Twelve long peals of the bell, and Cas pulls away, lifting himself inches higher.

 

“What?” Dean says, not letting him go. “You got somewhere else to be?”

 

Cas looks at him, and _looks_ at him, and he smiles with wings and mouth both.

 

“No,” Cas says, and he comes back down for more.

  
  


The humans involved call the wedding a hurried arrangement, but that’s nothing compared to what the other angels think of the pace. Castiel, on the other hand, has rapidly grown to envy Sam his single week of betrothal with Jessica. Dean thinks it’s hilarious, or at least claims to.

 

A cloudy morning gives way to sunlight as noon approaches. Yards and yards of rugs cover the field over which his people returned to this world, and that is only the first of numerous mind-warping extravagances. They are myriad: the presence of so many chairs, most hauled out from the capital by cart and of immense quality; the reception tables, furnished with gleaming silverware and soon to be laden with the labors of an outdoor kitchen, also hauled in by cart.

 

A large tent covers the last, perhaps to keep all signs of preparation out of sight. Nothing can be seen until it is ready. After all, that is the reason Castiel stands in a tent of his own, holding his feathers fluffed and splayed while his siblings weave blue ribbons into his wings. Balthazar fusses with dry insults while Hannah verbally reviews the ceremony for him, reciting everything King John will say and Castiel must answer in return. She skips the part where she vouches for his loyalty, but her eyes do flick toward the folding table where Castiel’s marriage wreath sits.

 

If the new ribbons, soft and fine, feel extravagant, that is nothing compared to their new clothing. Castiel has been fitted with a light jacket in the current human style, modified with the appropriate slits and buttons to accommodate his wings. It and his trousers are a darker blue than the ribbons, blue for bonding. The shirt beneath is white, and both shirt and jacket are heavily embroidered with a mountain and cloud motif, tan and white. His sleeves feel tight, his wrists cuffed in fabric, but then, he won’t be giving or accepting a blade today. In many ways, he is already married, and yet, he is not.

 

“Stop tensing up,” Balthazar complains. “It’s hard enough to get this even without you throwing us off.”

 

“Sorry,” Castiel apologizes. He forces his mind to Dean, in the tent on the opposite side of the ceremonial area. Sam must be with him, going through much the same routine as Castiel is. Rather, as Hannah and Balthazar are.

 

“There, stay like that,” Balthazar bids him.

 

Castiel stays like that the best he can.

 

“At the very end, King John is going to ask if you have anything else to say, to bind you,” Hannah reminds him. “Do you want to practice?”

 

“No,” Castiel says. “I know what I’m going to say.”

 

He is still deciding. He is torn between _you once told me all you wanted in a spouse was someone who wanted you back_ and _in a thousand years, historians will misspell your name, and I will correct them_.

 

“She means you should tell us first, so you don’t embarrass yourself,” Balthazar translates.

 

“No I don’t,” Hannah says. Then: “But it would be a good idea.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, holding firm.

 

Balthazar finishes up with the ribbons, tying them off and tucking the knots beneath the flap of Castiel’s jacket. Then there is nothing left to do but wait until someone comes to the tent to fetch Castiel and Hannah. Surprisingly, it’s Queen Mary who arrives after a short yet interminable wait, fresh flowers woven into her hair and crown.

 

“Your Majesty,” Hannah greets, lowering her head only slightly. “Is it time?”

 

“Almost,” Queen Mary replies. When she looks at Castiel, it’s not with Sam’s open admiration or Dean’s subtly conflicted affection, but neither is it with King John’s more blatant dislike. At the very least, she smiles at him with enough poise that Castiel can’t accurately judge her sincerity.

 

“Does Your Majesty have a message for me?” Castiel asks.

 

Her smiles shifts into something smaller, yet possibly warmer, and she shakes her head. In that moment, she looks very much like Dean before he tells a joke. “For Hannah,” Queen Mary replies. To his sister, she says, “Jessica and I have an open seat beside us. You’ll sit with us during the ceremony, won’t you?”

 

Castiel nearly frowns, but Balthazar swats at him to prevent him from messing up the ribbons.

 

Hannah smiles, answering, “I would be honored,” and when she looks at Castiel, there is joy in her eyes.

 

“But,” Castiel starts to say, only to cut himself off as Balthazar snatches up the marriage wreath from its table.

 

“I know my lines, don’t worry,” Balthazar says, as if he’d known Hannah wouldn’t be vouching for Castiel’s loyalty after all.

 

Castiel turns his stare on Queen Mary. Rudely, he knows, but he does.

 

“Will that be a problem?” Queen Mary asks, and there is steel in her. There is salt and iron and enough fire to match her husband if Castiel says _yes_.

 

“That will be wonderful,” Castiel says.

 

Queen Mary nods at him, and Hannah follows the queen out of the tent with one last encouraging look back at Castiel.

 

“I don’t see why you’re so surprised,” Balthazar has time to say before a page comes to get them. They exit the tent to the sounding of drums, a steady, proud beat they’re meant to walk to. Outside the tent is the expanse of seats, now filled. He sees colors he’s known for centuries, human faces he’s beginning to memorize. He sees green fields bowing to gentle winds, white clouds gliding against blue skies, more of his fellow angels wheeling above in observant circles. He sees, exiting the other tent opposite where King John waits in between, Castiel sees Dean.

 

“Walk,” Balthazar hisses, and Castiel remembers just in time to use his feet, not his wings. Walking is too small a motion, and the beats he must move at are too slow. Approaching, Dean’s strides are patient, the set of his head determined, but Castiel’s eyes are drawn instead to his arms.

 

Dean’s jacket is black, his family’s dominant color, but his sleeves are crisscrossed in blue. Azure ribbon has been woven about his arms, mimicking Castiel’s wings. He is black bound in blue, and as they approach the king from opposite sides, Castiel realizes Dean’s shirt beneath is not the expected silver or gold, but a deep gray he knows intimately well.

 

Dean is not in his family’s colors. He is in Castiel’s.

 

Facing each other, ever facing each other, they kneel in unison. Castiel crosses his wings over his legs, and Dean’s lips quirk. It takes Castiel too long to realize King John has begun to speak. It takes him even longer to notice Sam standing behind Dean, looming over his kneeling brother like a mountain over a tree. Sam smiles down at him, but Castiel can barely spare his new brother a glance.

 

Dean seems to be having the same difficulty. His eyes shine bright with more than sunlight, and Castiel stares back, bidding his mind to memorize this for all the rest of his years. Each faint freckle, each fleck of color amid the green; the curve of his lips and the line of his jaw; the silver gleam of Castiel’s blade at his waist. Castiel studies him, his hair and ears and neck, the rise and fall of his chest and shoulders with each and every breath. Embroidery shines on jacket and shirt both, black on black and gold on gray. The repeating motif is a simple one, artfully done. Feathers of thread and cloth stretch down Dean’s arms beneath the ribbons. They cross Dean’s chest under his jacket, the gold thread bringing ash gray cloth to life, transforming them into cinders full of embers.

 

Distantly, he hears King John speaking. Of nations bonding, of peoples and cultures, sacrifices and victories. He’s sure someone is writing this down or already has, and his ears care more for the sound of Dean’s individual breaths than any speech. Castiel cares for one phrase and one phrase alone, and only because Dean does. Each time King John refers to Dean solely as “my son,” Dean’s chest swells.

 

He would be beautiful even while ashamed, but in his pride, he is glorious.

 

“I call upon the honor guards of Prince Dean, Knight of the Realm, and Seraph Castiel, Emissary of Heaven,” King John states with a clear and steady voice. On the king’s right, Sam holds Dean’s marriage wreath forward.

 

“On this day, do you pledge yourself to truth?” King John asks him.

 

“On this day, I do pledge,” Sam answers, meeting his father’s gaze.

 

“Knowing this man, do you swear to the truth of his love?”

 

Sam looks down at Castiel, beaming as if the sun itself had found a home in his eyes, but again, Castiel can barely spare him a single moment. Because it’s Dean, Dean in front of him, Dean who hasn’t said the words and who refused to ask them of Castiel, it’s Dean who gives a minute nod.

 

“To know this man is to know the truth of his love,” Sam recites from the heart. He holds the woven crown over Dean’s head.

 

“Do you vouch for their union?”

 

With a nod, Sam crowns his brother and answers, “I vouch with all my honor.” The wreath settles down around Dean’s temples, a fae tradition turned human and somehow all the more binding. Castiel strives to hold Dean’s gaze even as Dean’s eyes try to pull away, abruptly shy, or perhaps not abruptly at all.

 

“On this day, do you pledge yourself to truth?” King John asks Balthazar in turn.

 

“On this day, I do pledge,” Balthazar replies. He steps forward, and the length of ribbon hanging from the wreath brushes against that already woven through Castiel’s wings.

 

“Knowing this man, do you swear to the truth of his love?”

 

Balthazar, of course, can’t leave anything well enough alone. “To know this seraph is to know the truth of his love.” He holds the woven crown over Castiel’s head.

 

If the correction bothers King John—which it certainly does—King John doesn’t show it now. “Do you vouch for their union?”

 

“I vouch with all my light," Balthazar says, swearing upon something much dearer than honor. Upon himself, on Hannah. On Anna, even on Uriel. On Castiel himself, their full family.

 

King John gathers the ribbons from the marriage wreaths, and Dean holds out his hand, palm forward. Castiel matches it, his right hand to Dean’s left, and King John begins to question them directly. With each question, King John pulls another ribbon from their wedding crowns through their hands, weaving a knot. He asks them of their certainty in each other. Of their lasting commitment, of their earnest support and their refusal to do harm. They answer each in the appropriate words, in the appropriate unison. “This we promise,” they say.

 

At last, the formal questions finish. The ribbons twine through their fingers in a knot yet to be pulled tight. “If there is more to bind you,” King John says, “speak it now.”

 

Dean presses his palm hard against Castiel’s. His eyes press even harder. “Never make me watch you die again,” he orders, love and anguish couched in command. “Thank you for my brother’s life, for my parents’ lives, for my life, but you are never going to make me outlive you again.”

 

Though two of their hands are already joined, Castiel still needs to reach. He does. Not for Dean’s free hand or his shoulder or even his face, but for the hilt of the blade that now belongs at Dean’s hip. It’s a cross-grab, awkward, but some moments aren’t meant to be perfect.

 

“This blade is me,” Castiel says, not for the benefit of those humans watching who do not know, but for Dean, who knows but does not understand. “It is my life—how I am still alive—and it is already yours.”

 

Dean begins to shake his head, returns adoration with tension, and so Castiel continues.

 

“When you die, it will be my keepsake of you,” he says. “I will carry it within me always, and it will still be yours.”

 

Dean opens and closes his mouth. He licks his lips and nods. “I,” he says, and swallows. He reaches with his right hand to take Castiel’s left, to twine their fingers in a firm knot of his own making. “I can live with that.”

 

Castiel nods back.

 

Without looking away from Castiel, Dean speaks to King John, saying, “Father, by your will, are we wed?”

 

King John pulls the ends of the ribbons taut. Castiel follows Dean’s lead in pulling their hands free, and the knot holds.

 

“You are wed,” King John decrees.

 

Dean bursts into a smile, and Castiel can’t help but follow him in this as well. His feathers strain against the ribbons woven through his wings, and Dean smiles all the wider with the curves of his lips and cheeks. They rise together, and the knot joining their marriage wreaths falls just above their clasped hands.

 

Their procession is a short one, the reception area immediately beyond the seated crowd. There are crowds beyond even that, Castiel notices belatedly, masses of humans hanging off fences and peering around guards. So many things his eyes refused to see, too intent in seeking Dean.

 

As they walk down the split between the seats, Castiel leans up to tell Dean this, only to hear Dean whisper down, “Don’t laugh, but I have no idea when all these people got here. Shit, man, that’s a lot of people.”

 

Castiel looks up at the human man who is now his husband, and knows he is matched in his love. Above and around them, his people sing a truncated version of their traditional bonding song, making humans marvel and Castiel fight to remain silent. One within the one within one, two bound in exchange. He mouths the words, and Dean looks at him with understanding of the meaning, if not the song itself.

 

Dean leads him to the table where they are meant to sit, Dean in a chair and Castiel upon a stool, but Castiel leads him beyond even that, the proper order of this ceremony no longer relevant. They look at each other in an agreement as complete as it is wordless, taking to the open space between the immense square of tables.

 

The air is warm with sunlight, his people are free and singing, and Dean is in his arms. Dean pulls him close, and Castiel pulls him closer still as they begin their first dance. For the first time in centuries, Castiel sings beneath an open sky. For the first time in all his life, Castiel sings to a man who loves him, and all the world is theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! A huge thank you to [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/pseuds/rachelindeed) and [seiji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiji/pseuds/seiji) for all their work beta'ing, support, and general joy of shenanigans in gdoc comments. Thanks, as always, to [Vyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyc/pseuds/Vyc), who listened to this story since its inception and responded with encouragement (and SPAG) each time I dropped an excerpt into chat. And thank you to all you readers and commenters who have followed this fic along the way or just got here now. 
> 
> I'm going to take a week off from posting, but keep your eye on Monday (and my [tumblr](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/)) for more fics to come.


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